A Death in Venice
by Rhiannon B
Summary: It is called 'La Serenissima', but after the man who runs SOLOMON's intelligence agency is killed, Venice is anything but serene. Murder and mayhem, and the dangers of dating a SOLOMON spy. Postseries, following Doujima and Nagira.
1. Which Will Not Suffer Themselves

'_There are some secrets which do not permit themselves  
__to be told. Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the  
__hands of ghostly confessors, and looking them piteously  
__in the eyes—die with despair of heart and convulsion  
__of throat, on account of the hideousness of mysteries  
__which will not _suffer themselves _to be revealed.'_

- Edgar Allan Poe, 'A Man of the Crowd.'

* * *

Chapter One: Which Will Not Suffer Themselves

Floodlights illuminated what was left of the Factory, casting parts of it into bright white relief and throwing the rest into shadow so deep that it rivaled even the darkest places in the surrounding forest. It turned the SOLOMON agents combing the rubble into black-clad ghosts, their faces bleached of color and detail by the near-blinding light. Voices carried across the wreckage, but the words were indistinct, lost through some peculiarity of space or acoustics.

Doujima watched as the agents swept over the wreckage in organized, grid-like patterns and sent up a short but sincere prayer that no one would ask her to contribute to the effort. She was much more comfortable sitting on the sidelines, her back pressed against the crumbled remains of a concrete wall. She had done enough for tonight, she decided. More than enough, after getting shot at and nearly having a building fall on her head.

In fact, she was thinking about demanding hazard pay.

Miho stood a few feet away, half leaning against another large section of concrete as a SOLOMON medic gave her a cursory examination. She bore the man's questions with remarkable patience, but there was a strange, distant look in the her eyes, and she seemed to be focusing on something about two inches above his right shoulder rather than on his face. At first, Doujima had simply chalked it up to shock at the night's events and her own near brush with death. Out of character for the usually composed Hunter, certainly, but if there was anyone who was entitled to a breakdown at this point, it was Karasuma. The longer she watched, however, the more she began to wonder. Karasuma didn't _seem _traumatized, only distracted. And when Doujima had finally asked her what had happened in the Factory, the brunette had simply shaken her head, a silent but irrefutable refusal to answer.

To someone who uncovered secrets for a living, it was maddening. _Something_ had obviously happened, but if Karasuma's stubborn silence was any indication, no one was ever going to hear about it.

Or perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps her coworker had been caught in the head by a falling piece of granite, and was simply concussed.

Remarkably cheered by the thought, Doujima turned her attention back to the slightly eerie scene before her, the stumbling hunt through the rubble. It didn't look as though they had found anything, although that would undoubtedly change as the first layer of debris was cleared away and the remains of Zaizen's labs were revealed. She was startled and not a little dismayed to see one of the searchers break away from the group and start towards her, moving with a strange, ambling grace over the broken ground. She tucked her chin into her chest and curled a little closer to the wall, wondering if she could actually _refuse_ to get up and help.

A pair of heavy black boots entered her field of vision, and she pretended to be contemplating the front of her stolen jumpsuit for a moment longer before she looked up at the man before her.

He should have been completely unremarkable, with an unkempt thatch of sandy-colored hair and a broad, homely face that looked sunburned even in under the floodlights' glare. Average, the sort of person that your eyes just skipped over in a crowd. Then she met his gaze, and reconsidered her original assessment. His eyes were too shrewd, too calculating for him to maintain that commonplace illusion. There was fierce intelligence there, and a force of personality that almost made him attractive.

"Worm?"

The short question made her pause, and reconsider her refusal to move. Instead, she practically bounced to her feet and took a step forward to meet him. "Charlie! Finally I meet the voice on the phone." She eyed him critically. "You're cuter than my last contact with SOLOMON."

She thought she saw his lips twitch. "Marco swears that you caused most of his gray hairs. He swears about you in a lot of other ways, too."

Her muttered comment of "_pussy"_ was probably too soft for the other spy to hear, but he chuckled all the same. He turned serious quickly after that, the lightning-fast shift in moods that usually indicated a spy, an actor, or one of the emotionally unsound. "Someone wants to speak with you. Follow me."

Doujima wrinkled her nose at him, and he arched a brow in response. "_Please,_" he added, and his tone of voice bordered on sarcasm.

That was fine. She was used to sarcasm. She worked for the STN-J, after all. She stood straighter and clicked her heels together, a pale ghost of the mock-salute she had once offered Amon. Amon and Robin... She glanced over her shoulder at Karasuma again, then shook her head. They were dead. It would be better if she believed that. Then she wouldn't be lying when that was what she told her superiors at SOLOMON.

"I seem to be done here. Am I going to get called back to Venice soon?" she asked, as he led her away from Karasuma and the medic. They skirted the edge of the Factory, walking through the shadows between the lights and the forest.

Her contact was silent, and for a moment she thought that he wouldn't respond. Then he shrugged. "Damned if I know. You know the Spaniard: one closed-mouthed bastard. He's been hinting that he might keep you here a while longer; I think that this whole business with Zaizen caught his interest. Even though it seems to be over, there might be some digging left to do."

_The Spaniard_. SOLOMON's shadowy Head of Intelligence, who chose to make his home amongst Venice's twisting canals, rather than at the more traditional Roman headquarters. The misnomer wasn't necessary; she knew his name, and chances were good that Charlie did too. But even after all this time, when the glamour of the job should have been long gone, there was a certain thrill to it. Code names and hidden secrets and that little rush of adrenaline when you told a particularly good lie...

Sometimes she suspected that SOLOMON intelligence was made up entirely of overgrown children, playing a large and very elaborate game of spy. She glanced sideways at Charlie, but didn't try to read his expression. It would have been useless; whatever emotion was shown there was doubtless a lie, or at least not the whole truth.

"Occupational hazard," she muttered, and he cast her a swift, startled look.

"What, you mean his not telling us what's going on? Yeah, I suppose it is," he said, obviously assuming that she had been responding to his earlier comment.

Doujima didn't get a chance to correct him, for they had arrived at their destination. The little hill seemed to have been designated as the center of operations for the night, a barely organized mass of parked vehicles and motion as people hurried about their business. A steady flow of SOLOMON agents came and went from the Factory site, most of them looking dusty and exhausted even though the night's work had just barely begun.

"Who was it you said wanted to see me, again?" she asked, with feigned innocence.

The look that Charlie gave her over his shoulder was one of amusement. "I didn't." She shrugged at his succinct response. He could hardly blame a girl for trying.

"Father Juliano."

At first, she thought that Charlie's simple statement was the answer to her question. Then she realized that her guide had come to a stop, and that the man in question was in fact standing before them. She stifled the nervous titter that tried to force its way out of her throat; Father Juliano was a very _imposing_ man, and having him suddenly loom up out of the shadows was definitely disconcerting. The fact that he was one of the most powerful men in SOLOMON did not make him any less intimidating.

"Thank you, Charles," he said gravely, and the other spy shot her a sideways glance before he bobbed his head in a nod and hurried away. She frowned at his retreating back, but soon had more important things to worry about as the full weight of Juliano's regard descended upon her.

"Yurika Doujima. You were our spy inside the STN-J, correct?" he asked, but continued without waiting for a response. His next words were unexpected. "Your parents send their regards."

She didn't even try to hide her disbelief, one eyebrow jerking up towards her hairline of its own accord. "And here I thought they were too busy plotting to take over the world," she quipped.

"Or at the very least, take over SOLOMON," he replied, his voice blank of even the slightest inflection. "Your father is a very ambitious man."

"If it were so, it was a grievous fault," Doujima murmured, and this time she saw one of _his_ brows rise, above the rim of his dark glasses. "I don't share in my father's ambitions," she added hastily. "I'm perfectly happy living and dying as the village idiot."

"The village idiot, who quotes Shakespeare."

She tried to look down her nose at him, which was not an easy feat when he was towering a good foot above her. "Rich kids get private tutors. You wanted to ask me about something?" A small part of her brain that was removed from the conversation anxiously reminded her that this was one of the STN's top Hunter trainers, not Chief Kosaka, and that she couldn't mouth off to him with the same impunity. She liked to call that little corner of her brain her common sense, and ignored it with the ease of long practice.

He stared at her for a long moment, before nodding stiffly. "We have the blueprints that you sent to us of the Factory. We need you to go over them and tell us how accurate they are."

She strained to remember what she had sent them, and shook her head slowly. "Not very. Most of what Zaizen had built isn't even shown. Michael would know more about that than I do."

"Mr. Lee," the priest murmured, and nodded. "I have already spoken to him and your other coworker – along with another man whose connection to the STN-J I have yet to determine. However, I will ask again." He hesitated, and she sensed that he was on the brink of asking something else.

"Do you know what happened to Robin Sena? None of the men were able to tell me." Father Juliano paused, and she could practically see the wheels in his head turning as he wondered how much he actually had to tell her. "I was her guardian, for a time."

The question triggered a memory. "I remember. Amon said that you were the one who ordered her hunt."

"I was wrong."

For just a moment, she thought that she saw regret on his face. It made her want to tell him the truth, or at least the truth of what she suspected: that nothing as paltry as a collapsed building would kill the craft-user. She stopped herself before the words could escape her lips. If SOLOMON was going to believe that Robin was dead, then _all_ of SOLOMON was going to have to believe that Robin was dead.

It was starting to feel like every time she opened her mouth, a lie came out. She was suddenly reminded that there were times when this whole spy business wasn't thrilling or exciting. In fact, there were times when it _stank_, like when you found yourself betraying your friends... Or when you ended up being the bearer evil tidings. Possibly false evil tidings, at that.

There was no helping it. She did what she had to do.

"I'm sorry, Father. She was caught in the collapse. Amon as well."

Another flash of barely-there emotion crossed his stern, patriarchal features. He bowed his head for a moment, as if in prayer or thought, then nodded. "Thank you. That will be all."

Awkwardly, Doujima removed herself from his presence. She drifted to the base of the hill, another place caught between the brilliant lights illuminating the Factory and the cool shadows of the woods. Once again her attention was caught by the slow, faltering dance of the agents who were searching the ruin.

_A dance._ That seemed fitting. It was a dance, and they were all dancers, pirouetting helplessly to the tune that SOLOMON played.

The thought startled her a little. It smacked of bitterness, and doubts that hadn't existed before she had been assigned to the STN-J. That was another disadvantage to being a spy. If you asked too many questions, you started to realize that the answers were not the ones that you had come to expect. Especially when it came to SOLOMON.

"Crisis of faith," Doujima muttered, then snorted. Dark and serious thoughts were brushed away simply because she did not want to confront them. She had told Juliano the truth; she was perfectly happy being the village idiot. She did not need nor want to examine the deep and possibly life-altering ethical questions, with all the strings and complications that came with them.

Perhaps that was what made her a good spy.

"Penny for them?"

She turned to look behind her, and although they were far enough away from the lights for her to have trouble making out his face, there was no mistaking the fluffy white mass of Nagira's coat.

"What?"

"A penny for your thoughts?"

She felt something in her relax at his easy tone, evil tidings and ethical questions washed away by amusement. "Hey, those were some heavy thoughts. I think they're worth more than that."

"Not according to...," he started to say, but stopped when he saw her expression and realized that he was about to get one of her erstwhile teammates into a whole mess of trouble. "Or not."

"That's what I thought."

Nagira chuckled softly, and she felt an answering smile on her lips. "I'm glad that you made it out, little lady."

She glanced at him as he came up to stand alongside her. "You know that Robin and Amon..."

"Are alive and well, and probably miles away by now? Why yes, I do." She could hear the humor in his voice, and didn't bother to contradict him. He leaned closer and lowered his voice, as if he was about to disclose a carefully guarded secret. "I know my little brother. It'd take more to stop him than a few tons of sheetrock being dropped onto his head."

"Of course it would," she found herself agreeing, "there's nothing in there to damage."

The sally drew another laugh out of him, and she felt the last of the tension that came from dealing with flying bullets, snarky spies and imposing priests simply dissolve. _This geezer is pretty cool_, she had said earlier. Now she was being forced to revise that opinion slightly. Something about Nagira's demeanor just acted like tonic on the nerves, making it impossible to be sad or dour.

Or at the very least, he seemed to be having that effect on her. Years of his company certainly hadn't improved Amon's disposition any.

She shook her hair back over her shoulders, and shivered a little as the cold nighttime air brushed the suddenly bare skin of her neck. She angled her body so that she was facing him, and pushed her lower lip out in a pout. "I don't suppose you'd lend a lady your coat?"

He grinned at her, a flash of white teeth in the shadows. "Not a chance. Do you want to go somewhere to get out of the cold?"

She dropped the pout, and tried to leer instead, although she had the feeling that it didn't come across quite like it was supposed to. "Are you propositioning me?" she asked, and the teasing tone somehow sounded more flirtatious than she had intended.

"Sure. Why not?" he replied, after a momentary pause that probably had more to do with her pitiful attempt at a leer than the question itself. He gestured up the road, where a mass of flashing blue and white lights indicated that Tokyo's finest had arrived in force, and didn't intend on leaving anytime soon. "I'm sure one of your Chief's buddies will give us a ride out. I'll buy you a drink somewhere."

Doujima considered, tilting her head back to look at the hill with its mass of parked cars and trucks, even a helicopter tucked to one side. She probably wasn't supposed to leave yet, but it wouldn't be the first time she had gone missing right when there was work to be done. Or possibly _because_ there was work to be done. She smirked a little at the thought; leaving _would_ keep her from being drafted to help with the search effort.

"Okay."

Her job here was finished. The secret of the Orbo had been discovered, Zaizen had been stopped, and Miho had been rescued. SOLOMON could take over, searching for hidden mysteries amongst the ruins.

As for her, she would have to be content to let the Factory keep the rest of its secrets, buried beneath mortar and stone.

* * *

Alfonso de Cardona y Alemán, the man otherwise known only as 'The Spaniard', did not look like the most skilled Head of Intelligence that SOLOMON-International had ever employed. Most of his spies used a harmless exterior to mislead others, but he turned the deception into an art form. A slightly built man to begin with, he was dwarfed by the massive desk that he sat at and the overstuffed leather chair behind it. His skin was darkly tanned, and his face was a network of fine lines, especially near the mouth where years of wrapping his lips around a cigar had given them a tight, pinched look. White hair was neatly slicked back, and what looked to be a watch fob hung out of the front pocket of a finely made suit that was at least two sizes too big for him.

He actually reminded Charlie a little of his Grandpa Dresden, a man who had always smelled of tobacco smoke and shoe polish, and who had told his ancient war stories so often that even a curious young boy had eventually gotten bored of them. That was the difference, of course. Alfonso rarely said anything, much less repeated what he did say, and if he was more than old enough to have grandchildren of his own... Well, no one had ever dared suggest retirement to him.

He didn't stand when Charlie entered the room, but he did scoot to the edge of his cushion and lean out across the desk. Shrewd dark eyes glanced over the cardboard box in Charlie's arms, then moved on to his face. "I see that you're back from your sojourn in Japan. What have you brought me, Charlie my boy?"

"I recovered what I could from Zaizen's Factory," he said, and placed the box on the edge of the desk, "Some of it's badly damaged, but maybe you can do something with it." He paused, and ran a hand through his disheveled blond hair, mussing it even worse. "I didn't report to the officials in Japan on any of it, as you instructed. May I ask why, sir?" It was a cautious question, and one he didn't really expect an answer to.

Alfonso glanced at him and laughed, a rusty cackle of a sound. "Oh, nothing as sinister as all that, my boy." He settled back in his chair, his expression turning thoughtful. "You will find, as time goes on, that spying for SOLOMON requires a certain amount of spying _on_ SOLOMON as well. The men in Rome are not inclined to share power or information, so unless you intend to become yet another one of their pawns..."

"I understand, sir."

Another cackling little laugh. "I thought you would. That's why you'll be running this operation someday, mark my words." He grinned, smoke-yellowed teeth showing for just a moment. "Besides, I want to know what was going on there. I have some lively curiosity, for such a dead cat."

"Sir?"

"Don't worry about it. Any news?"

"Nothing that you don't already know. The Factory has been destroyed, and Administrator Zaizen is dead. Two members of the STN-J have also been reported as dead, one of them the craft-user who was declared a witch and hunted a while back."

"Robin Sena," Alfonso mused, and Charlie didn't bother to wonder how the man knew her name. "Yes, she was declared rogue soon after being assigned to the STN-J. You sound doubtful, though. Who told you about the deaths?"

"Our worm. Miss Doujima."

He looked surprised, although Charlie couldn't tell if Alfonso actually felt the emotion or if it was just there for his benefit. "Do you have any reason to doubt her truthfulness?" There was a certain amount of irony in the question; a good spy never really trusted anyone's truthfulness, especially that of another spy. Charlie understood the reason behind the query, though. Alfonso had always had a certain fondness for the ditzy blonde.

"I was there for a few days, and she seems very close to the members of the STN-J," he stated carefully. "I believe that she would lie to protect them, if she didn't feel it interfered with her duties to you. And there were no bodies recovered."

"I see."

"The Factory is immense, sir," Charlie hurried to add, "so it's possible that they simply haven't been found yet. Or... This Robin Sena, she was supposed to have been a fire witch, and we did find evidence of burning. Isn't it possibly that she lost control when she realized the Factory was coming down, and incinerated herself and those around her? Strong emotion does tend to bring out the Craft in people."

"I believe I would know about that even better than you, Charlie-boy. Wouldn't you say?" Alfonso asked, somewhat dryly, and Charlie belatedly remembered that the Head of Intelligence did not like to be reminded of his own Craft powers. The old man sighed, and shook his head. "Yes. That's all possible. Or it's possible that you're correct, and Miss Doujima has indeed been keeping things from us." He smiled, ruefully. "After all, I taught her well."

Charlie remained tactfully silent, and watched as Alfonso's expression turned thoughtful. Finally, he seemed to come to some conclusion, and shook his head.

"No. I'm not concerned by this. Leave it alone."

"As you like," Charlie replied, and turned to leave the room.

"Leave it alone... for now."

* * *

Disclaimer: _Witch Hunter Robin_ is not mine. Nope. Leave it as that.

Notes: Many thanks to WiccanMethuselah (auntiemom, for any of you Harry's folk) for beta reading. Stay tuned for the next chapter, in which our brave heroes receive mysterious letters from mysterious people and take an unexpected trip.

Edit: Uncredited Shakespeare quote (Doujima's) from Julius Ceasar, uncredited paraphrase (Alfonso's) from The Lion in Winter.


	2. The Mortifying Perusal

'_...in half a minute the letter was unfolded again, and  
__collecting herself as well as she could, she again began  
__the mortifying perusal...'_

- Jane Austen, 'Pride and Prejudice.'

* * *

Chapter Two: The Mortifying Perusal

The office at Raven's Flat was unusually peaceful, the silence broken only by the quiet tapping of multiple keyboards and the sound of a magazine's waxed pages being turned. Most of the STN-J was using the unexpected lull in activity to catch up on their much-neglected paperwork. Even with the addition of a new craft-user in the form of Sister Éloise Maçon, they barely had enough people to hunt effectively, and the necessary paperwork was left undone until either someone got around to it, or the desks became lost beneath the stacks of files and folders.

Doujima, on the other had, had seen the time as an opportunity to catch up on her Gucci. She ran her fingertip the glossy image of a leather pump, then flipped the page again. Éloise was watching her with covert disapproval, which Doujima ignored. Sooner or later, the older woman would adjust to the way things were organized at the Japan branch. None of the others had even twitched an eyelid when she had pulled out the magazine instead of turning on her computer.

She had also found that one of the advantages of Kosaka becoming Administrator was that he had moved into his own office, and was much less likely to spot her goofing off. So not only could she enjoy her reading material, she could do so in relative peace. Even if the nun was still watching her like a paranoid schoolmarm.

The last page of her magazine arrived too soon, and she sighed as she closed it. On the back cover, a woman in thigh-high boots, a long coat, and little else pouted up at her with painted red lips. "Airbrushed," she informed the picture, and stood with a yawn and a sigh.

She stretched slowly, then pushed the chair all the way back with the heel of her foot and stepped away from the desk. The chair rolled a few feet, and stopped only inches from a stack of folders that was already dangerously close to toppling. "I'm going to take a break and get something to drink. Does anyone else want something?"

"Because all of that hard work you've been doing has to have worn you out," Sakaki grumbled.

"Does anyone _besides_ Sakaki want something?"

"Some water, _s'il vous plaît_?" Éloise asked, and even her English was so heavily accented that it was hard to understand. She always spoke English on the job, because her knowledge of Japanese was very nearly nonexistent, and unlike Robin, she didn't seem to be making any effort to learn.

Doujima hadn't seen fit to inform the craft-user that she spoke flawless French, or that she had spent most of her childhood in villa about twenty miles up the coast from Marseille. She felt no great desire to get to know the woman, and she certainly didn't feel any of the affection that she had so quickly developed for Robin. In fact, she didn't like their newest member much at all. She couldn't even say why, but the soft-spoken Éloise grated on her nerves... Perhaps because she always seemed to be _watching_, judging them in her own quiet way.

Karasuma had said that she was being paranoid. Doujima had replied that she had spent over a year _watching_ the STN-J, and should be trusted to know when someone else was _watching_ them.

Needless to say, the argument had not convinced Karasuma.

"Fine, fine," she replied, and gave Éloise a hard look that was meant to say, '_I'm keeping my eye on you, missy_.'

Éloise just seemed confused.

With another little sigh, Doujima made her way towards the break room. Even though Robin had been gone for quite some time now, there was a full pot of coffee brewing on the counter. To the best of her knowledge, no one but Michael even drank from it, but someone always seemed to prepare a pot. It just sat there, until it became burnt or stale and a new pot was made, a silent monument to the young woman who had somehow wormed her way into their hearts. Doujima didn't even think that any of them had realized how important Robin really was to the STN-J until she was well and truly gone, dead or in hiding. She couldn't imagine their doing something like this for Kate, or for Éloise, if she were to go. Or even Amon, who had been beloved in his own way.

Or herself, when she went.

The thought made her wonder why she _hadn't_ been called back to Headquarters yet. It was something she had wondered a lot, recently. In fact, she hadn't heard anything from either Venice _or_ Rome in the time since the Factory's collapse. It was almost like they had forgotten her entirely, although she knew that this wasn't the case. It left her at something of a loss as far as what she was supposed to do. Her assignment here was done, but no one seemed inclined to give her a new one and, while she was a competent spy, she wasn't a terribly good Hunter. In fact, she was almost useless for field work; she just wasn't _trained_ for it. The others had been taught how to track, how to work as a team, how to dodge being turned into mincemeat by a witch's powers and still shoot straight... She had been taught how to lie, how to pry, and how to cover her own ass if she needed to.

She had just pulled the refrigerator door open when she heard someone else step into the room. She turned, and found herself facing Éloise, who was standing with one hand resting lightly on the doorframe. She was a tall woman, but not physically imposing, a fact that had less to do with her slender build and more to do with the fact that she seemed to lack any sort of _presence_. It was easy to forget that Éloise was in a room. It was difficult to judge her age... Older than twenty, younger than forty, but probably somewhere right in the middle. Her brown hair bore no trace of gray, and at the moment it was tucked away under a nun's customary veil, which most days she seemed to forget. Her face was round and soft, and the look in her pale eyes always seemed mildly critical to Doujima, as if the world were somehow a disappointment to her. "Miss Doujima? May I speak with you a moment?"

"No one's stopping you," she replied. She turned to retrieve a bottle of water from inside the refrigerator, then stepped away and closed the door. "Although I don't know why it couldn't have waited until I came back out there."

"This is a matter of some discretion, I'm afraid."

Rather than make another snappy comment, Doujima leaned her weight lightly against the counter and turned her full attention to the other woman. The water bottle remained unopened in her hand. "I'm listening."

Éloise reached into the folds of her black dress, and extracted something that gleamed white under the room's fluorescent lights. An envelope, Doujima realized. It was edged in red and blue, and even from across the room she could see that the writing on it was in Italian.

"A love note, for me? Why Éloise, I'm touched. I should tell you that I'm already involved with someone, though. I'll just break your heart."

"_Non_, it's not from me. It's from Rome."

"Are they excommunicating me already?"

The woman visibly struggled not to lose her patience, and Doujima smirked. "From Headquarters," Éloise informed her, through clenched teeth and tight lips.

The smirk faded from Doujima's lips, and she put the bottled water down on the counter. She extended a hand for the letter, and Éloise gave it to her without another word. However, when Doujima went to rip the envelope open Éloise raised a hand to stop her, and shook her coifed head emphatically. "Not now, not here. Later, when you are alone."

Doujima considered opening it in spite of the other woman's protests, but in the end she acquiesced, folding the envelope in two and tucking it into the pocket of her jacket. She could almost _feel_ it sitting there at her hip, as if it held some hidden heat that radiated through the layers of her clothing and into her skin. Burning a hole in her pocket, indeed.

"Why are _you_ the onedelivering this to me, instead of Chief Kosaka doing it?" she demanded, narrowed eyes moving to rest on the slender form of the woman in front of her. "You're here to keep an eye on the STN-J, aren't you?" The words popped out of her mouth without her really intending to say them.

Éloise met Doujima's eyes with her own pale ones, a strange color that wasn't quite blue but almost violet. "You know how this game is played, _mademoiselle_. I can't answer that question."

"Which one?"

"Any of them."

It didn't matter. She had already as good as admitted it. "So I'm to be replaced?"

Éloise hesitated, then shook her head. "_Non_. Not quite."

Doujima frowned. Then something clicked. "You don't work for Alfonso. Then who...?" She wasn't going to get an answer, she realized, but the mystery presented by the older woman was too great to be left unsolved.

The expression on Éloise's face was almost haughty. "I do not answer to _L'Espagnol_ if that is what you mean. Beyond that, it is none of your concern."

For a moment, Doujima could only stare at her. "Are you really a nun?" she finally asked.

"Yes," Éloise replied, and her lips trembled for a moment in what was almost a smile. The expression looked foreign on her face, and Doujima realized that it was the first time she had seen it. "As you are well aware, the best lies are laced with truth. You can't claim that you aren't, in part, exactly what you pretend to be."

"I'm not sure that was a compliment," she muttered, and once again got a trembling little half-smile in response.

"Probably not," Éloise agreed amiably. She tilted her head, her tall frame still blocking the door. "Are we in accord, then? You won't say anything about our little _tęte-ŕ-tęte_ to the other Hunters, will you?"

Doujima remained silent for a moment, then nodded. "What is there to say?" She patted the pocket where she had placed the letter. "Besides, I suspect these are my walking papers. If that's the case, it's not my place to interfere, not anymore." All the same, she was just protective enough of her teammates to feel a little pang of guilt at _not_ telling them about Éloise. Yet another person sent with the intention of deceiving them. It was a wonder that there was any sort of intra-team trust left at all.

Well, she and Robin had turned out well enough. Perhaps the same would hold true for Éloise. With another little pang, she realized that she actually was going to _miss_ the people here, if she was, indeed, being ordered back to Italy.

"_Merci_, and you may _suspect _whatever you like," Éloise said with a shrug, neither confirming nor denying Doujima's theory. "You will know for sure when you open the letter."

Doujima snorted.

Another one of those brief hesitations before speaking, which seemed to indicate that Éloise was wondering how much she was able to say. That told her that, while Éloise might have been a capable snoop, she was not a polished liar. Perhaps her religious convictions interfered. "Be careful, _mademoiselle_. I will be honest and say that I do not like you, but... I know of the STN's tendency for sending its agents into danger, and I wouldn't want to see you come to harm."

"You don't have to tell me," she replied, brushing off the expressed concern. She picked up the water, tilting it back and forth meditatively for a moment before she tossed a smile at Éloise. "You be careful too. Craft-users don't seem to fare too well around here." The comment sounded spiteful, even to her own ears, a vicious reminder that their last two craft-using Hunters had ended up dead.

There were times when she thought that she wasn't a very nice person.

"Do me a favor?" she asked, coming to a decision. She continued on before Éloise had a chance to refuse, brushing past her to leave the break room. "Tell the others that I'm leaving early today? Thanks."

Doujima could practically feel Éloise's reprimanding glare on her back as she sauntered down the hall. As she pushed open the door, she spared a final glance at the other woman.

_Watching_, as usual. It didn't bother her as it generally did. She knew what watching was like.

* * *

The letter had arrived that morning, almost a month after it had been written. Like the rest of Robin's infrequent letters, it had been delivered by hand, this time carried by a pretty young woman with sly dark eyes and a Spanish accent. As always, when he had asked about sending a return letter, he had received a nothing but a secretive little smile and a silent shake of the head. This was not the first such messenger, and although he would admit it was probably safer than sending news through conventional channels, it made him wonder just who his brother's wayward charge had been associating with in the long months since she had left Japan.

_Dear Nagira_, it began.

_Amon and I are in Barcelona at the moment. I think that it's safe to tell you that, because we'll be gone by the time this arrives in Japan. I don't like being this cautious about writing, but Amon is too worried to allow for any correspondence, and I understand why he worries. From what we've been able to determine, SOLOMON still believes that we died when the Factory collapsed, and it would be best if they continued to believe that._

_I don't like Spain. I think that has a lot to do with the fact that I don't speak the language – Spanish isn't as close to Italian as a person might suppose. Still, people make an effort to cross the language barrier to communicate with me, so it's not as bad as it could be. And I always have Amon to talk to._

That made him wonder as well, because she had mentioned it in other letters. Couched in vague terms, she had told him about how _certain people_ seemed to be going out of their way to speak to her, to get to know her. This was where she got her mysterious messengers, and he couldn't begin to guess what it meant. Robin was a wonderful girl, but why would 'certain people' (what people?) go out of their way to communicate with her, much less be willing to travel into a strange country to deliver her mail?

He didn't think that there was any way for him to get an answer, but it was an interesting puzzle all the same.

_Last night was the Eve of St. John, and the street outside of our hotel was thronged with celebrants. Esperanza, the woman who has volunteered to deliver this note to you, insisted on dragging me out to sit by the bonfire and join in the feasting. It was more fun that I expected it to be, although I drew the line at taking part in the dancing. She says that the Festival of 'el Grec', which begins at the end of the month, is something wondrous to behold, but Amon says that we'll have moved on by then. We move quite a lot these days._

_I'd like to ask you about the people at the STN-J, and how they're doing, but I know you can't respond. I don't even know if you kept in contact with them after the Factory came down. If you have... Could you perhaps drop a hint that Amon and I are alright? I miss them – and you – quite a lot._

_I don't know when I'll be able to write again, but I'll try to make it soon. I hope that you are doing well for yourself._

_Robin_

Nagira set the letter down on his desk with a sigh. Poor kid. She never complained, but it didn't take a genius to read between the lines and realize that she was feeling uprooted. No matter how many peculiar friends she made along the way, it had to be hard, moving from one place to another as the wind (and his brother's moods) blew.

Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about it. Even if he had been of a mind to pay them a visit – which he wasn't, because he wouldn't risk their safety in that way – he had no way of finding them. They would be long gone from Barcelona by now, and even he wouldn't be able to track down two people who were intent on hiding without so much as a _vague_ idea of where they were. He didn't even know if they were still in Europe. Resignedly, he swung himself to his feet, ambling across the room to put the letter through the office's well-used paper shredder. It wasn't the sort of document that he could leave laying around for anyone to find.

Hanamura had been speaking quietly into the phone for the past few minutes, but now she hung up with a soft "humph" and turned in her chair to give him the fish eye. "You have cases," she said, without preamble. "You are not taking her out."

With an introduction like that, it didn't take much effort to figure out who Hanamura had been on the phone with. Much to his surprise and occasional dismay, she and Doujima had taken a strange sort of liking to each other somewhere along the way. Nagira thought that it might have had something to do with the blonde's unwillingness to bear mildly his secretary's comments, as Robin and some of his previous light-of-loves had done. There had been some truly spectacular spats early on in the relationship, but the two had now reached a cautious truce... If it could be called that. Hanamura continued to refuse to call Doujima by name, but referred to her as his 'mistress', which was still a great deal kinder than some of the things she had called his _previous _love affairs.

That still didn't stop her from berating him if he left with Doujima during office hours.

"She's waiting downstairs?" he asked. The secretary sighed and nodded grudgingly. Nagira retrieved his coat and walked out the door with one last cheery wave to Hanamura, who looked livid but not terribly surprised.

Come to think of it, he had to wonder if her uncharacteristic acceptance of the situation came not as a result of any action on Doujima's part, but from simple shock at the unprecedented _length_ of the affair. As a general rule he didn't keep lovers for long and, although he couldn't say for certain, he didn't think that Doujima's track record was much better than his own. However, for reasons he couldn't quite pinpoint, this seemed to be working out well for both of them. Perhaps it was because they didn't function like a conventional couple. There were no set dates, no carefully planned meetings; he would just show up in the lobby of Raven's Flat, or come home to his little-used apartment to find her waiting outside his door. Anniversaries and milestones were ignored with what bordered on glee. He couldn't recall ever buying her a gift, although she had once had his coat dry-cleaned for him. Evenings _out_ invariably ended up turning into evenings _in_ – and no doubt mutual desire was one of the reasons behind their continuing involvement.

Perhaps a very big reason, he thought amusedly, as he stepped through the front door of his office building and found her standing on the sidewalk impatiently. As usual, the kiss exchanged in greeting was not a polite peck on the lips, but deeply involved, and prolonged enough to draw a vaguely scandalized look from an old woman who passed them by. Doujima's fingers curled gently into the hair at the nape of his neck, and even once they had separated she didn't let go.

"Work sucked," she said. "Buy me dinner."

Of course, no one would ever claim that Yurika was low-maintenance.

"You mean you actually worked today?" he wondered jokingly. Even if he was well aware that he didn't have any room to throw stones when it came to that particular topic, he sometimes couldn't resist the urge to poke fun at her and see how she reacted.

"No, but the others did, and I just love them all so much. It's hard to watch them suffer," was her lighthearted response. She released him, her hand lingering momentarily on the curve of his shoulder before dropping back to his side. "Except for Sister Maçon. I don't love her. I want to drop her in a river and see if the stories about witches floating are true."

He raised an eyebrow, unsure of how to respond to that. Generally, the specifics of their separate jobs were not discussed. It was too touchy a subject, and too risky when each knew that the other was, in essence, working for the enemy. So it was avoided, lest it throw a wrench into what otherwise seemed to be a perfect arrangement. Although, as time went on, he found that it was becoming less and less easy to dance around the issue, especially when they spent a good number of their nights together.

She caught sight of the look on his face, and smiled quickly, waving a hand to show that an answer wasn't necessary. "Forget about it. Just..." She went to touch something in her pocket, then caught herself and once more let her arm drop straight. "That reminds me. Can you hold on just a moment? There's something that I need to look at before we go."

Nagira didn't bother to remind her that he hadn't actually _agreed_ to buy her dinner, and indicated that she should take what time she needed. He watched curiously as she pulled an envelope from her pocket, and ripped into it like a kid on Christmas. The expression on her face was strange, devoid of her usual humor and filled with the strangest mixture of relief and dread.

A sheet of plain white paper was removed from the envelope. The angle at which she held it made it impossible for him to see what was written on it, but it couldn't have been very long, because only a moment later she was folding it back up and tucking it away into her pocket again. Her movements were slow and careful, and her lips were pursed in thought.

For a moment she simply stared at her hands, and when she looked up again he couldn't help but feel that she had reached some sort of decision. Something devious, if the faintly wicked tilt of her mouth was anything to judge by. Almost without meaning to, he braced himself for whatever surprise she was thinking about springing on him.

Her eyes were amused, but there was a challenging light to them as well, as she asked, "How would you like to take a trip to Venice?"

* * *

Disclaimer: _Witch Hunter Robin _is not mine.

Notes: Once again, a very big "thank you" to WiccanMethuselah for her wonderful beta reading. Coming up next, _Turning_, in which Doujima and Nagira arrive in Venice.


	3. Turning

'_...often the turning down this street or that, the accepting  
__or rejecting of an invitation, may deflect the whole current  
__of our lives into some other channel.'_

- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, 'The Stark Munro Letters.'

' "_I prefer women with a past. They're always so demmed  
__amusing to talk to." '_

- Oscar Wilde, 'Lady Windermere's Fan.'

* * *

Chapter Three: Turning

If Nagira had asked her _why_ she had invited him to go to Venice, Doujima doubted that she would have had an answer for him. She had a long history of doing as she pleased, but even she would admit that this bordered on carelessness. She didn't think that she would be returning to her life with the STN-J, and Nagira was very much a part of _that_ life. It wouldn't be plausible for her to drag him along on whatever assignment she was handed next; it was barely plausible for her to be taking him to _La Serenissima_, the very center of SOLOMON's intelligence agency.

In short, he was a loose end. Alfonso hated it when his agents didn't tie up loose ends. She couldn't understand why she was having such trouble letting go of her life in Japan; it wasn't just Nagira, but all of it. Against agency policy, she had gone back to say goodbye to her coworkers at the STN-J. A spy was supposed to just _leave_, not stand there and watch as her boss rubbed his shiny bald head in dismay at her departure – and then yelled at her for going gallivanting off to Europe and leaving them understaffed. A spy was certainly not supposed to provide a forwarding address, but Miho now had in her possession of a small slip of paper with the number of a rented mailbox written on it. A spy was not supposed to let her old life, her old assignment, bleed into the new, but that seemed to be exactly what she was doing.

Come to think of it, she wasn't entirely sure why Nagira had agreed to this trip in the first place. Although she hadn't told him the specifics, she had made it clear that she was going to Venice on SOLOMON business, and the lawyer had never been subtle in his dislike for the organization. A part of her wondered if his ready agreement had been with the intention of trying to gain more information on the _confraria_, but that was really more her style than his. While they had been working together to find out about Zaizen, she had realized that he had the makings of a truly talented spy. In spite of that he was a basically honorable man, and would have seen something wrong with _using_ the woman he was sleeping with to achieve his ends.

Doujima stole a sideways glance at the Nagira, and decided not to worry about it any further. Although allowing business and pleasure to mix probably hadn't been one of her better ideas, she couldn't see any real _harm_ in it either. Many of the agents she knew kept a little slice of normal life for themselves on the side and, at the very least, she would have a few fun days with a sexy man in a city that encouraged romance.

The man in question was currently slumped in his seat, his head bowed so low that it almost touched his knees. She had been surprised, and a little bit amused, to find out that Nagira did not fly well. He had been a charming shade of green since the moment they had set foot on the plane, and when they had hit turbulence during the takeoff, which was not surprising considering July was Tokyo's rainy season, he had gone pale and curled into his current hunched position. He had only _uncurled_ to gulp down the drink that the stewardess had left for him, and then returned to studying the floor of the cabin as though he expected it to fall out from beneath him at any given moment.

Needless to say, she had not needed to fight him for possession of the window seat. She leaned over a little to speak to him, curving her body so that her head was on the same level as his. "If you need a distraction," she teased, "I've always wanted to join the mile-high club."

Nagira snorted. "Yurika, if I make a mad dash for the bathroom, it's going to be for a very different reason."

"I hope you don't get this sick on a boat," she mused. "Otherwise, Venice is going to be hard for you. It's almost impossible to get around in just a car."

"I'm fine on water," he replied dryly. "At least then there's something under you. But thanks so much for your overwhelming concern." He redirected his gaze from the floor to her face. "It sounds like you know your way around the place. Are you a native?"

"No," she replied, with a shake of her head. "But I lived there for almost four years while I was in training." It felt strange to be giving a completely honest answer, even about something so simple. It had been a long time since she had done that, and she realized that this wasn't something they had really talked about in their time together. Her past, like her future, wasn't something that she usually gave a lot of thought to.

"You had to have been pretty young when you moved to Italy. Your parents didn't mind?"

"No. I think they were happy that Alfonso recruited me, and that I was making myself useful. I haven't seen either of them in a long time. My father more or less lives in Rome, and has for years, and my mother is poised to become the next administrator for SOLOMON-France, so she spends a lot of time working in Paris." She smiled at his startled look. "When I said that my parents were high up in SOLOMON? It wasn't one of my lies."

"I didn't think it was," he replied. "Why—."

He cut himself off abruptly, and suddenly she could sense that familiar gap. The Forbidden Subject: her work for SOLOMON, and his distaste for the organization, its mission and its methods. She let it go, shifting to a safer topic of discussion. "We should be landing soon. Someone is supposed to meet us at the airport and take us to our hotel."

Almost as soon as the words had left her mouth, the intercom crackled to life and a voice informed them to prepare for descent. Nagira returned to careful contemplation of his loafers, as she leaned towards her tiny window to catch her first glance of Venice in almost two years. The light of the setting sun reflected off of the water, caught on the gracefully curved dome of the church of Santa Maria della Salute, and turned the tiled rooftops of historical Venice an even deeper shade of red. It was picturesque, like something out of a postcard or a Renaissance painting, even though she knew that, at this time of year, the canals would stink in the summer heat, and the beaches and bath houses of the Lido would be overflowing with tourists.

The landing went much more smoothly than the take-off had, and she leaned over once again to nudge Nagira. "Come on, buddy. Let's get you off this flying death trap."

He rose to his feet slowly. "You're mocking my pain."

"I'm sorry," Doujima replied, not at all repentant. Nagira tried to glare, but it ended up turning into a smile instead. He did that a lot; unlike his grumpy half-brother, he did not seem inclined towards dark moods.

"I think you can be forgiven, little lady," he said, and draped a long arm across her shoulders as they stepped into the terminal at Marco Polo Airport, just north of the city. The last of the day's light cast long shadows across the ground. Even this late in the afternoon, the airport was swarming with people, which wasn't entirely surprising during the height of the summer tourist season.

Doujima glanced across the crowded airport, and wondered how she was expected to find her contact in this mess. Perhaps he was standing somewhere, holding cardboard sign that said 'SOLOMON Intelligence' on it in bold letters? She smirked at the idea, and motioned towards the baggage carousel. Maybe in the time it took them to retrieve their luggage, her contact would find _her_.

Sure enough, as they were removing the last of their numerous bags from the carousel, a heavy hand landed on her shoulder. "_Buonasera_," a familiar, gruff voice said, "and welcome to the stinking, festering swamp that is _Venezia_."

"Venice is built on a lagoon, not a swamp," she replied, and turned to greet Marco Bianchi. This actually required looking down a couple of inches; even if she had been wearing flat-heeled shoes, she was taller than he was. Doujima had long ago decided that Marco reminded her of nothing so much as an aging biker. His gut strained against the thin material of his white t-shirt, and a lion's mane of graying black hair was brushed back from his gently retreating hairline. He even had the worn black leather jacket to fit the part. In spite of that, she knew that the initial impression of him as thug-like was misleading. Marco had been her contact during the first part of her time in Japan, and he was a dedicated family man who became exceptionally irritable when forced to leave his beloved Sicily on assignment, even if his days as a field operative were rapidly coming to an end.

He had once told her that he wanted to retire completely from the spy business. It seemed that he had not gotten his wish. "I'm surprised to see you here," she said, and there was the slightest hint of a question in her voice.

The older spy caught her meaning, and shrugged. "It was a foolish thing to consider. I know as well as you do that the only retirement plan for a SOLOMON agent involves being carried by six of your best friends." He tried to make light of it, but the joke fell flat. In that, spies were like Hunters; none of them were ever going to be able to leave SOLOMON, unless they did so in a cozy pine board box.

"Are you two done speaking in code?" Nagira asked from behind her. She jumped a little. Marco's eyebrows shot up, and he looked Nagira over from head to foot before turning to give her a very suspicious glare.

"That's a very strange piece of luggage you have there, Yurika." There was a bit of an edge to his voice.

"He's not my luggage," Doujima quipped, "he's the thing that carries my luggage." Nagira made a faintly offended sound, but looked more amused than anything else. "Nagira, meet the inexorable Marco Bianchi. Marco, meet Syunji Nagira." She stumbled a little over the introduction; after so long in Japan, her mouth desperately wanted to introduce them last name _first_.

"I don't want to meet Signor Nagira," the older man muttered, "I'm hoping that if I rub my eyes real hard, Signor Nagira disappear. You always did know how to complicate matters."

"I don't see what the big deal is," she replied, picking up one of her suitcases. It barely weighed anything; she always carried an empty one that she could fill up with the spoils of whatever shopping she did. "The Spaniard is going to shit a brick when he finds out, sure, but it's not like he'll actually _do_ anything about it." Actually, as far as those higher up in SOLOMON went, Alfonso was pretty relaxed. He didn't take failure lightly, but he was willing to give his agents a little more leeway that most.

"The Spaniard?" Nagira asked, but Doujima simply gave him her best enigmatic smile in response.

Something shadowed Marco's gaze for a moment, and his lips thinned out into a hard line. "Things have changed here, Yurika. You'll find nothing as you left it." He glanced away, and a strange, stiff smile curved his lips. "After all, Venice is sinking."

Doujima cast him a bewildered look. "It has been for years. What are you _talking_ about, Marco?"

"Nothing," he replied evasively, waving off her question with one wide, dark-skinned hand.

"Yeah, that sure sounded like 'nothing'," Nagira commented, then snorted. "'Venice is sinking,' indeed."

Marco sighed and turned his gaze towards the baggage carousel, as if he suddenly didn't want to look at either of them. "Nothing that I'm allowed to tell you about, then. Certainly nothing I'm allowed to tell _him_ about." He motioned towards Nagira without looking at the other man. "You'll know soon enough."

"That sounds foreboding," Doujima said. She pulled out the handle on one of her other suitcases, which was heavier but thankfully came on wheels. "Help me with these?"

The Sicilian seemed relieved that she wasn't going to press the issue, and retrieved two of the bags with a minimum of protest. "How is it that I always end up carrying your shit around?" he grumbled, and led the way towards the exit.

"Just lucky, I guess," she replied. Nagira fell into step beside her as they left the airport, _one_ bag in his hand. He grinned at the look she gave him, and shrugged.

"If your friend is willing lug it all, why should I argue?"

From ahead of them, Marco made a very rude sound.

"Are we taking the _vaporetti_ or driving?" she asked after a moment, and Marco glanced over his shoulder.

"The Alilaguna ferry will get us into the heart of town. From there we can walk." He scoffed, "Why rent a car to drive to the city when I will just have to dispose of it upon arrival?"

Doujima rolled her eyes, and looked at Nagira. "Everything travels by water in Venice. Cars aren't even allowed within the city." She considered Marco, and added with a smirk, "Of course, after seeing the way that the rest of Italy drives, I think that the banning of cars shows a great deal of sense." She slowed down as they approached the edge of canal, near where the water bus would stop. That was something that had taken getting used to when she had first moved to Japan: the need to drive _everywhere_, rather than using the public boats or borrowing the one that had always been tethered outside of the house where she had stayed. "There's also the fact that you can pretty much walk from one end of the city to the other in a little over an hour."

Another very rude little sound came from Marco's direction. "Under an hour, in sensible shoes." He eyed her feet, along with the high-heeled boots she was wearing, somewhat dubiously. "How you survived hunting in those, I'll never know." He glanced quickly sideways at Nagira, as if he had suddenly realized that he wasn't supposed to speak so openly about her hunting for SOLOMON around an 'outsider'.

Much to her relief, Nagira simply shrugged. While snippy comments about SOLOMON did nothing more than irritate _her_, saying such things around Marco might have caused problems. Her gallivanting around Venice with her current beau would raise a few eyebrows and perhaps earn her a good talking-to at worst. On the other hand, her gallivanting around Venice with her current beau, who happened to dislike the syndicate and all that it stood for, would probably get her into a whole mess of trouble. Especially given the fact that he had been hard at work, foiling a good number of the STN-J's carefully laid plans. Plans that she had been taking part in... Which _was_ a bit unusual, come to think of it. Maybe it was good that they never talked about work.

Of course, sometimes they didn't talk at all. But that was another thing altogether.

"Maybe they got distracted by how her legs look in heels, and were easy prey," the lawyer suggested. Although he didn't look at her when he said it, there was something wicked in his expression as they stopped to wait at the ferry landing.

"Hey," she protested, as Marco guffawed.

"I take it back," the older man said with a grin, "He's quite amusing." He bobbed his head towards Nagira in a belated greeting. "_Piacere._"

Doujima muttered something indignant about this being revenge for the last time they had worked together, and looked up the canal in the hopes that the ferry would soon arrive. After what seemed like an eternity, with Marco still grinning widely at her, the sound of the boat approaching reached her ears. The smile faded from the other spy's face, and by the time the ferry had reached them, he was solemn once more. She frowned, and wondered over the man's sudden mood change. Marco had almost rivaled Kosaka as far as sheer _crankiness_ went, but today he just seemed... morose. Once again, she felt a little thrill of apprehension. Had something really gone that terribly wrong in Venice?

There was no use worrying about it now. He had already made it clear that he wasn't allowed to tell her anything about whatever mysterious 'changes' had come to pass. The lack of information was frustrating, but nothing new when it came to dealing with SOLOMON Intelligence.

"I'll pay for the tickets," he said, and shoved the smaller of the two bags he was carrying under his arm so that he had a hand free. "I don't imagine you've had a chance to change your currency yet." He once again moved ahead of them, this time to buy the tickets.

The sky had darkened into true twilight, a deep blue with just a hint of lingering light at the edges. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nagira remove a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his travel-wrinkled green suit jacket. He tapped one out into his hand, and placed it in his mouth, but didn't light it. "Your pal there seems pretty upset," he said and, as always, it amazed her that he could still _talk_ with one of those things hanging out from between his lips, "You sure you want to do this?"

She wanted to remind him that she didn't particularly have a _choice_, but she held back. It would probably draw a comment about the dubious nature of SOLOMON's employee policy and, in this case, she would have to agree with him. She remembered Marco's comment about retirement options, and almost sighed, but ended up shrugging instead. "A lot of things upset Marco. My _breathing_ upsets Marco, most of the time. Maybe that's what you're sensing."

The look he gave her as he pulled his lighter out of his pocket said it all. _Yeah, right_. He didn't argue though, simply flicked open the lighter and used it to ignite his cigarette. He slipped the lighter back into his pocket, and inhaled deeply, the tip of the cigarette glowing for a moment in the darkness.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his nose twitch. He exhaled a mouthful of smoke, sniffed again, then asked, "What's that smell?"

"The canals, _signore_," Marco said, returning with tickets in hand, "The city has been trying to clean them up for a while now, but they still stink in summer." He glanced between the two of them and smirked, although Doujima couldn't help but feel that it was half-hearted at best. "Not very romantic, I'm afraid."

"I really do hope that your wife beats you while you're at home," Doujima informed him, and even though she sounded exasperated, the comment had the quality of an old and shared joke.

"Every night," Marco said, with complete seriousness in his voice and the barest glint of humor in his eyes. She hear something that sounded suspiciously like a snicker from Nagira. With a shake of her blond head and a soft _harrumph_, she led the way onto the boat.

Marco eyed Nagira's cigarette as they stepped up onto the deck. "Could I bum one of those?"

Nagira shrugged and fished one out for him, and Doujima raised a brow. "I didn't know you smoked."

"I do now," Marco replied darkly. Then he shook his head, as if to clear it, and frowned at her. "Knowing that I would again be in your charming company is what got me started."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," she drawled, and moved to the edge of the boat to lean against the railing. Nagira came to stand near her, close enough that their elbows were bumping but without speaking. The murky green water of the canal slid by on either side as the boat chugged along slowly, and passengers were scarce enough that it was almost completely silent on the deck, except for Marco's quiet and nonsensical muttering a few feet away. Nagira's cigarette burned out as they approached the center of town, and he dropped the butt into the water before lighting up another.

She let out a long breath, and let the noise of the boat's engine lull her into a sort of trance, watching as the familiar sights went by. She barely noticed when the boat stopped, although she did stir when Marco came and tapped her on the shoulder. "We're the next stop," he informed her. "You're already registered at a hotel. I'll take you straight there. I imagine you're both tired."

Actually, she wasn't, although she didn't bother to tell him that. Too many thoughts were buzzing through her head for her to even contemplate sleep. If she was honest, she was more than a little excited about all this. Excited, because she was back in Venice, yes, but also excited by the little hints of danger that she had been picking up on ever since stepping off the plane. Doujima had seen how energized some of her coworkers got in the middle of a dangerous hunt, even if they wouldn't admit it, and she wondered if this was something similar. Hunting scared her more than it thrilled her... But spy work was a different matter. If running around after dangerous witches was how the members of the STN-J got their daily dose of adrenaline, secret messages and covert missions were undoubtedly how she got hers.

"What rat-hole are we staying at?" she asked teasingly.

Marco rolled his eyes. "The Hotel Pausania, which is not a rat-hole."

"And here I thought that all of Venice was a festering swamp to you," she mocked, and frowned thoughtfully at the name of the hotel. "That's in Dorsoduro, isn't it?" she asked, naming the _sestiere_, or neighborhood, where the hotel was located.

"Yes."

She waved a flippant hand. "It will do."

"I'm glad you approve," Marco said, in a flat voice that implied that he really couldn't have cared less. The ferry once again floated to a stop, and he hustled them back onto dry land. He glanced around quickly, as if getting his bearings, then made a gesture that she took to mean that they should cross the Ponte dell'Accademia, the last bridge across the Grand Canal. After she nodded, he hurried towards the bridge, obviously assuming that she and Nagira would follow and not bothering to look over his shoulder and make sure that this was the case.

"I think he wants to get rid of us," Nagira remarked. "What did you ever do to him?"

"Why do you assume that it was something I did?" she replied, with mock-indignation.

Once again, the look he gave her spoke louder than words.

"Alright. So it was something I did," she admitted. "He calls it his 'year in hell'. But I really didn't think that he'd hold a grudge." She hurried to catch up with Marco before the lawyer could respond, the heels of her boots clicking against the pavement and the wheels of her suitcase bumping along quietly. Nagira followed at a more sedate pace, but they finally drew even with Marco at the other end of the bridge, on the Dorsoduro side of the canal. She caught a brief glance of the Gallerie dell'Accademia, the art galleries that Napoleon had founded in 1807, before she was forced to once again lengthen her stride to keep up with Marco. His legs were shorter than her own, but Nagira was right – he did seem eager to get this over and done with.

It wasn't long before they turned onto the _Fondamenta _Gherardini, and from there it was only a stone's throw to their hotel. A small canal ran alongside the street and, even though the sky had by now darkened to true night, there was still a good deal of traffic sliding through the water. "Wait here," Marco told them sternly, and set the bags he had been carrying down by Doujima's feet before stepping into the hotel.

"He's bossy," Doujima said, but she didn't try to follow the other spy into the hotel. Nagira shrugged and leaned back to finish his second cigarette, squashing it out beneath his loafer when he was done. By the time he was finished, Marco had returned, a pair of room keys in his hand. He handed them each one, and retrieved the bags that he had left behind. "I'll show you where to find your room, then you're on your own for the night."

"Whatever shall we do with ourselves?" Nagira murmured.

Doujima smiled archly, then followed Marco into the old _palazzo_ with its fountain at the center, and towards a set of impressively wide stairs. The stairs became a lot less impressive when she realized that she would be lugging her suitcases up them, and she sighed every time the empty one banged into her shins. It was with a great deal of relief that she stopped in front of the door to the room. Marco plucked her key out of her hand, apparently deciding that she was taking too long to open the door, and unlocked it himself. Something in his face seemed to relax once the task was done. Probably joy at the thought of finally being rid of them.

He pushed the door open, revealing the room beyond it, and returned the key to her. "Here we are. Go ahead and take some time to settle in; I doubt that anyone will be contacting you until tomorrow, or even the day after."

"Mysterious, aren't we?" she muttered, as she pushed the first of the suitcases through the door and onto one of the lightly-colored rugs that covered the floor of the room.

Marco grinned suddenly, reaching up to rumple her hair, like she was a child who had just said something particularly adorable – and silly. "Espionage, Yurika. Nothing can be simple or straightforward, _sě_?"

Torn between amusement at his words and annoyance at his somewhat patronizing tone, she finally returned the grin. "_Sě_. I'll see you around, Marco."

He nodded curtly, and disappeared back down the stairs. "Be careful," he called over his shoulder, a kind, if somewhat unnecessary, warning.

"Aren't I always?" she wondered to herself. She had no doubt that Marco would have had a rather pointed response, had he heard the comment. Happily, he had not.

Nagira stepped around her into the room, and dropped the bag he was carrying onto the bed. Doujima followed him in, glancing around appreciatively. Unlike many of Venice's hotel rooms, which were usually around the size of a postage stamp and filled with heavy, baroque furniture, this room was large and decorated in light colors. The overall impression was one of space and comfort, and she approved. If Alfonso was going to drag her to Italy on short notice, at least he had provided some nice digs.

Doujima set down her second bag and reached out into the hall to retrieve the two that Marco had left behind, then closed the door. Nagira seemed to be busy investigating the bathroom, and she crossed the room to glance through the cream-colored curtains that covered the windows. Their room overlooked the canal, and the water shimmered in the darkness, reflecting the lights of the hotel's windows back at her. The occasional boat still passed below, but they were less frequent now. She wondered how late it had become.

She sensed it, rather than heard it, when Nagira emerged from the bathroom behind her. One of the floorboards gave a soft squeal as he approached her from the other side of the room, and she spoke without turning away from the window. "How do you want to spend the evening? I'm not tired, and it's a little late for sightseeing..."

He stepped up behind her, close enough that she could feel the faint warmth of his body against her back. One of his hands brushed her hair to one side of her neck, trailing lightly over the sensitive skin there and catching briefly in the strands of her hair before sliding through. Doujima closed her eyes and smiled a little at the contact, but continued to speak, "...but we could go find somewhere to eat, or check and see if this hotel has a bar."

Nagira leaned forward, and she could feel his breath tickle against her skin for just a moment before his mouth touched the bend of her shoulder, right before it curved into her neck. She felt him grin faintly against her flesh as she maintained her rather one-sided conversation.

"Or, we could stay here, and see if we can order some food in..."

He slid an arm around her waist, and closed that last trembling inch of distance between them so that he was pressed up against her back in one smooth, unbroken line. His lips moved up a little to brush the tender skin just behind her jaw, and she shivered a little. All the same, she went on with her teasing litany of 'things to do.'

"...play a game of cards, or maybe checkers. I like checkers. Something to while away the long evening hours, you know..."

"Yurika."

She turned her head so that she could look at Nagira, her expression one of contrived innocence.

"I'm trying to seduce you, here," he said, rather dryly.

"Really? I hadn't—."

Whatever Doujima had been about to say was cut off abruptly as he covered her mouth with his own. She leaned into the kiss, tilting her head back and parting her lips slightly to allow him better access. All thoughts of checkers were conveniently forgotten.

* * *

At first Doujima thought that the noise from the canal had woken her, the hustle and bustle of people making their morning commute from outside the hotel room's window. Pale sunlight spilled through a crack in the curtains, illuminating the foot of the bed but leaving the rest of the room in shadow, and she prepared to simply role over and go back to sleep.

Then she realized that it was not the sound of morning traffic from below that had pulled her out of sleep; that in fact, someone was knocking quietly and politely at the door.

With a soft groan, she blinked bleary eyes and extricated herself from Nagira's arms and the tangled sheets, nearly pitching forward onto the floor when her foot got caught in one final loop of white linen. She managed to snag one of the hotel's fluffy white bathrobes and pull it on before she made her way to the door, and used the hand that wasn't holding the robe closed to try to pat her mussed hair into some semblance of order.

Nagira barely even stirred on the bed, except to role over into the warm spot she had left behind.

She pulled open the door, and stared rather blankly at the middle-aged maid on the other side. The woman took in her rumpled appearance, and smiled apologetically. "_Scusi, signora._ It's past eleven; I thought that you would already be awake." She held out a sheet of paper, neatly folded, but not sealed or placed in an envelope. "Someone left this at the front desk for a 'Signorina Doujima'?"

"That's me," she replied. She took the paper from the woman's outstretched fingers. "_Grazie_," she murmured, but didn't offer a tip. After a moment, the maid turned and went, looking a little disgruntled.

Doujima closed the door, and wasted no time unfolding the paper. The handwriting was the same neat, slanting calligraphy as the letter that had summoned her to Venice, and this communique was perhaps even shorter than that one had been.

_Lunch at Al Profeta_, it said, _To be found on Calle Lunga. 12 o'clock._

Something was bothering Doujima about those thick, gracefully-written letters. She frowned a little, trying to figure out what.

Then she realized. She grabbed for the pants she had worn the previous night, and emptied the pockets. She tossed her passport and her wallet aside carelessly, in favor of the slender blue-and-red bordered envelope that the original letter had come in. The handwriting was the same as the morning's note, yes – but it was _unfamiliar_. She was certain that she had never seen it before this past week, and it was definitely not the neat, blocky copperplate that Alfonso used to communicate with his agents. Whoever had asked her to return to Italy, it had not been The Spaniard.

How had she not realized this before?

She glanced again at the note that the maid had delivered. She wasn't familiar with the name of the restaurant, but the _Calle _Lunga, the street where it was located, was only a short way away from _Fondamenta _Gherardini, the street on which they were staying. Perhaps the restaurant had been chosen specifically for that reason. It was an easy walk, and if she hurried and got dressed, she could make it there by the appointed time.

There wasn't any question of whether or not she would go. Even if Alfonso had not been the one to send the letters, this was still SOLOMON business. When SOLOMON called, she answered.

She remembered Marco's cryptic warnings, and seriously reconsidered that notion. Maybe the next time SOLOMON called, she could conveniently... not hear.

And maybe she could run naked through the Piazza San Marco, with a lampshade on her head and the words _'the wine was better in France'_ written across her bare ass.

It the end, she heaved a sigh, and pulled out of her suitcase a hairbrush and a slightly wrinkled, not to mention scandalously short, plum-colored dress. She ran the brush through her hair a few times, and shimmied quickly into the dress before hunting around for the boots she had worn the night before. When she was finished, she still looked a little rumpled (which made the fashionista within her _cringe_) but it would have to do.

With one last glance at the man on the bed, she grabbed her shoulder-bag and stepped out of the room and into the mid-July heat.

* * *

Disclaimer: _Witch Hunter Robin_, not mine. Plot and original characters, mine.

Notes: Marco first appears in 'We Wear the Mask', a ficlet which is also posted on my account. A _vaporetti_ is a large public ferry, and a _fondamenta_ is a street that runs along a canal, or along the lagoon banks. A _calle_ is a street which does not. _Sestiere_ is used to designate one of the six _sestieri_ – neighborhoods, of which Dorsoduro is one. Technically, the word _palazzo_ means 'palace', but it's used for many large, important buildings; or in this case, a hotel in what used to be a large, important building. All of the places mentioned here are real, and although I've done my best to remain accurate, I can't promise that I haven't made a few mistakes. Once again, WiccanMethuselah receives credit for making this thing readable. In the next chapter, _The News of His Decease_, Doujima finally gets some answers, which in turn raise even more questions. Ain't that always the way?


	4. The News of His Decease

'_And before nightfall a shocked and respectful world  
__received the news of his decease.'_

- Thomas Mann, 'Death in Venice'.

* * *

Chapter Four: The News of His Decease

Doujima stepped out of the hotel and onto the street, stopping briefly to adjust to the change in light after the dimness of the lobby. The wave of noise that hit her was almost as oppressive as the sudden, bright sunlight; morning traffic combined with the usual throng of shorts-clad summer tourists. She and Nagira were probably lucky that they had been placed deep within Dorsoduro, rather than closer to the Piazza San Marco and the center of town, where it was impossible to turn a corner without nearly getting run over by a pack of sightseers.

The hotel concierge had given her the directions to Al Profeta, but she still managed to get turned around once she got to the _calle_, which seemed to stretch on forever. By the time she approached the _trattoria-pizzeria_, she was fifteen minutes late and just a little bit aggravated. An enigmatic letter-writer and an equally elusive restaurant; today was not off to the best start.

Sometimes, espionage was not nearly as glamorous as it was cracked up to be.

Even if she _did_ get to wear some killer shoes in the line of duty.

The restaurant was packed wall-to-wall with people, both vacationers and locals, enjoying a leisurely lunch hour. Doujima waved off the waiter who came to seat her. Even if she had told him that there was someone waiting for her, it would have been a moot point, since she would have been unable to name that person or even describe what they looked like. For all she knew, her SOLOMON contact could have been an elderly Swedish woman with blue hair, or the studly descendant of some Roman god.

Idly hoping that the latter was the case, she wove her way through the crowded restaurant. When no one made any move to get her attention, she made her way toward the open door at the back of the dining room, which led to the outdoor seating. The small garden, with its neat little tables, was very pretty, and a great deal quieter than the inside of the restaurant had been; it would make sense as a meeting place, especially on a warm day such as this one.

She recognized him the moment she stepped through the door. The summer sunshine made his white hair appear almost gold, and the straight, sober lines of his black clothing looked distinctly out of place when surrounded by the colorful frivolity that was Venice. The dark glasses and hat that she remembered him wearing the last time she had crossed paths with him were set carefully at one corner of the table, but he still appeared tall and imposing, even while seated. It took more effort than she would have admitted to cross the garden and slide into the empty seat across from the man.

"Father Juliano," she said, and she let her bag drop down next to her seat, "Fancy meeting you here."

The elderly priest had looked up from his careful contemplation of a cup of coffee when she had approached, and this close she noted that his eyes were a pale, startling blue. "Miss Doujima. Thank you for joining me on such short notice." He glanced at her, and one of his eyebrows might have twitched upwards. "Please, have a seat," he added, and she thought that she heard a slight, ironic drawl tinge his so-serious tone. Doujima shrugged and crossed her legs, settling more comfortably into the chair that she had already claimed.

"I hope you do not mind," Juliano continued, "but I have already ordered." Doujima shrugged again to show that she didn't.

"I should warn you that Venetian cuisine is somewhat... touch-and-go," she told him. She had been reaching for the menu resting at the edge of the table, but now she set it down again. Unsure of what to do with her hands and, uncomfortable beneath the intensity of his blue stare, she picked up a packet of sugar. She started to fiddle with it absently, pulling on the paper edges of the packet, or shaking it by a corner so that all of the sugar settled into one side.

Juliano watched the quick, restless movements of her hands for a moment. He smiled, but it was a little stiff. Probably from disuse, Doujima decided, a bit sourly. "Alfonso always raved about this place," the priest reassured her. If she was surprised at his use of the spymaster's real name, she didn't show it. "For a man so fond of his cigars and brandy, he did love his pizza."

"Alfonso also liked the _zaletti_," she retorted, and shuddered a little at the thought of the sun-dried maize cakes found in many of the city's bakeries, which had about the same flavor and consistency as her boot soles. Doujima loved Venice but, unlike so many of their Italian cousins, the Venetians had gained a well-earned notoriety for their inedible cooking. That had changed a lot as the tourist trade grew, but the local baked goods still tasted like sugar-frosted leather. It had been quite a shock to her when she had first moved to the city, especially since she had been used to the lavish decadence of the French patisseries.

A waiter brought her a glass of water, and she abandoned the packet of sugar in favor of taking a drink. She wrapped her hands around the cup, watching as her fingers cut trails through the layer of condensation on the outside of the glass. "Why am I here?" she asked, once the waiter had departed and left them alone again.

The changes in Juliano's demeanor at her sudden question were clear. The faint smile that had curved his lips disappeared and, if anything, the intensity of his gaze on her face became even more pronounced. She could understand how this man had become one of SOLOMON's top Hunter-trainers, before eventually making his way into the ranks of the Assembly, the closest thing that the syndicate had to a ruling body. Her father, also a member, had charisma and sly sort of intelligence. Juliano had... _power_. A strong presence, and a certain commanding air that demanded respect. She wondered what it would have been like to grown up under such a man, and felt a pang of sympathy for Robin. No wonder the craft-user had been so quiet and polite.

Doujima stole a glance at the priest, and dismissed the thought. No matter how unapproachable Juliano seemed, there had been honest regret when he had spoken about his protégée on the night of the Factory's collapse. She would guess that he had been a strict warden, but she also couldn't doubt that he had felt a great deal of affection for the young girl.

"I have an assignment for you," he said, and it took Doujima a moment to recall what she had asked him. She couldn't quite keep the skepticism off of her face at his words.

"With all due respect, Father," she said, "I'm not allowed to take my assignments from _you_. SOLOMON Intelligence is supposed to be mostly autonomous from the rest of the syndicate, to keep us impartial in the event that we're sent to investigate another branch within the organization." A precaution that was usually only partially successful at best, as her own experiences in Japan had proved.

There was a pause. It only lasted a few seconds, but to her it seemed longer. "You sound just like him," Juliano said quietly, and for just a moment she fancied she saw something sad and tired in his eyes.

"Alfonso? I guess so. He has a way of making sure that if he teaches you something, it sticks in your head. Occasionally he does so by smacking you on it with a rolled up newspaper, but it works."

"He was very fond of you."

Something about the way that Juliano phrased the comment bothered her, but she couldn't pinpoint _what_. "I guess I kind of like the old guy," Doujima replied. "He...," she trailed off, and shook her head. There was absolutely no reason to go sharing personal information with Juliano and, when she stopped to think about it, she really wasn't inclined to do so. Why would she tell Juliano that she was probably closer to SOLOMON's Head of Intelligence than she was to her own parents? Why would she bother to share with the Hunter-trainer just how grateful she was that Alfonso had come out of nowhere one day after her thirteenth birthday, and given her a purpose and a mission _besides_ sitting around the villa, spending her family's money and learning useless things from her expensive tutors? Being lazy by choice was one thing; forced idleness was quite another and, although there were days when the life of a spy downright _sucked_, it was certainly better than either doing nothing. Or worse yet, following in daddy's footsteps.

So, she would never actually be able to _leave_ SOLOMON Intelligence. So, there had been times when Alfonso had manipulated her as easily and ruthlessly as he did everyone else around him. So what? At the end of the day, she still owed him what little loyalty she was capable of. He had seen potential in her, and gone out of his way to develop it, all the while treating her like a favored niece instead of an agent. It was a good deal better than what her parents, always busy with their jobs and ambitions and political ladder-climbing, had given her.

No, there was no reason for her to share any of that with Juliano.

Of course, Doujima knew that her own childhood had been downright _sugary_ compared to that of some of SOLOMON's other employees. The worst that her parents had ever done was withhold affection, and even that hadn't been intentional; just a side-effect of their upwards climb in SOLOMON's ranks. Others had not been so lucky.

She had been given access to the STN-J's personnel files when she started her mission, and she remembered them clearly. Michael, a computer prodigy snatched from his home and family at the tender age of fourteen, because he had gotten a little curious and gone digging where he wasn't supposed to. Amon, who had been recruited by the very same syndicate that had hunted his mother. Miho, newly awakened in her powers and very carefully extricated from the care of her loving but panic-stricken aunt, a woman unable to cope when her niece had started to see things that couldn't _possibly_ be real. Only Sakaki had remained relatively untouched by personal tragedy. Another SOLOMON baby like herself, he had joined the STN with the intention of following in the example set by his father, also a SOLOMON Hunter.

To her initial surprise, Robin's files had not been made available for her perusal. It had only been later that she had realized this was because Robin had been sent with an ulterior motive of her own: to find out what secret the witches of Japan had been hiding.

Alfonso had been incensed when she had told him that SOLOMON headquarters had sent in another spy without informing him. Not even one of _his _spies. Like Éloise, Robin had been entirely HQ's creature up until the time when they had started hunting her. It made Doujima smile a little to remember the old man's anger; above all, the Spaniard loved to try to put together all the little puzzles that made up the whole of SOLOMON, and became very frustrated when he realized that he had somehow missed an integral piece of one of those puzzles.

"He's kind of a crafty old buzzard, but he's a good boss," she said finally.

"A 'crafty old buzzard'?" Juliano repeated, and Doujima found that her words sounded distinctly strange coming from the priest's mouth. "Yes, I suppose that is an apt description of the man. We were friends for a very long time, he and I. We went through training together."

Doujima stared at him, and tried to figure out where he was going with this line of conversation. Once again, a touch of foreboding flowed through her, setting her nerves on fire. "That's nice," she said, and, although she tried to sound sarcastic, her voice came out cautious, worried about what he was planning to say next.

When he caught her eyes with his own, his face was once against serious and closed-off. There was something searching about his gaze, like he was trying to gauge her reactions. "Alfonso is dead, Miss Doujima."

"Oh."

There was the strangest buzzing sound deep in her ears, a quiet swarm of angry bees that had suddenly taken up residence inside of her head. The glass slid through her damp fingers, landing base-down on the tabletop with a quiet 'thump' and sloshing water over the rim. "Oh," she said again, softly, and she couldn't help but think that it didn't sound right, not like her at all. Too faint and whispery, without the bright confidence that usually colored her voice. She stared at the thin puddle of water on the table, before reaching out blindly for one of the napkins to wipe it up.

Juliano covered her reaching hand with his own, barely stopping her from knocking over his coffee. The unexpected feel of warm, dry skin against the back of her hand pulled her out of her temporary daze, and she looked up at him. Once again, she thought that she saw his hawk-like features soften around the edges. There was something very tired and human on his face, and, for just a moment, he actually _seemed_ like the old man that he appeared to be; past his prime, full of regrets, and weary. It was a startling realization; like Alfonso, Juliano had always given the impression of being very solid and sure of himself. He had seemed, to her, like the Alps to the north; harsh, craggy, and unforgiving, but unlikely to crumble any time soon.

Doujima knew better than anyone that appearances could be deceiving, but the realization that Juliano was just as vulnerable and flawed as the rest of them was not reassuring. The revelation came too close on the heels of the news of Alfonso's death, and a part of her decided that if these two mountains of SOLOMON could crumble, then the rest of them really _were_ screwed.

"I need you clear-headed," he said curtly, and that was heartening because he sounded like himself; like a grim Hunter-trainer who obviously wasn't crumbling yet, in spite of the losses that he had suffered in the past year. "I said I had an assignment for you, and I do. It concerns Alfonso's death, and grief is a luxury that you can ill afford, my child." He took the napkin and released her, dabbing up the water with slow, careful movements.

She tried to feel angry at his easy dismissal, but ended up feeling a quiet sort of resignation instead. Experience told her that snapping at the priest would probably make her feel better, but even she was professional enough to know when to put personal feelings aside and get down to the job at hand. She had done so successfully at the STN-J, ignoring her somewhat grudging affection for her coworkers in order to betray Zaizen to HQ. She would do the same now.

The first order of business, of course, would be to send Nagira home. If this was about Alfonso's death, then it was too risky to keep the lawyer here. Risky for _whom_, Doujima couldn't exactly say, but she was almost certain that no good could come of his involvement. Damn, but she would miss his company. She had the feeling that she was going to be in need of a good deal of cheering-up before this was over, and Nagira's wisecracking never failed to make her smile... Or at the very least, inspire her to think of a really good comeback.

"I'm going to become as broody and morose as Amon," she muttered to herself.

"What?"

"Its nothing." Doujima leaned forwards across the table. "What happened to Alfonso, Father? He was healthy last time I spoke to him."

"He was found in his office without a mark on him. Dead. We think that it was the Craft."

She frowned. "It's possible. I'm sure that there were witches out there with a grudge against him, and Venice has a big population of people with witch powers."

"The largest population in an Italian city, in fact," Juliano informed her. "It is because the Hunters do not have a presence here. We stay away to give Intelligence space but, unfortunately, that means that the witches in this area are not as well monitored as they are on the rest of the peninsula." He smiled with difficulty. "I had been trying to convince Alfonso for years that such isolation was unwise. He valued his relative independence from the rest of the Assembly too much to give it up, though, even in such a small way as letting me set up a branch of the Hunters here."

"I'm surprised that the Assembly allowed it."

"Knowledge is power, as the saying goes," Juliano said with a sigh. "Alfonso had a great deal of information in his possession, and he was very good at procuring more. That made him powerful. So they gave him his space, and they listened when he spoke."

Doujima snorted softly. "I told you in Japan that I wasn't ambitious. This is why. I don't think I could stand to play the SOLOMON political game."

"Sometimes, I believe that I feel the same way."

His solemn statement startled her, and she raised her water glass to her lips to give herself a moment to think over what he had said. After taking a sip, she lowered the glass and returned her attention to him. "That's an odd thing for you to say. No one is as deeply embroiled in SOLOMON politics as you are. The Assembly respected Alfonso but, as I understand it, _you _have them eating out of the palm of your hand."

"Is that what they say?" Juliano asked, his pale eyes keen. "Its not entirely accurate. The reality is much more... complex. Things change." Another one of his strange, brittle smiles. "_'Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.'_"

She shifted uncomfortably at the quote, and wondered what he meant by it. It sounded like a warning, but she couldn't understand what he was warning against – or if the warning was even intended for her. "What exactly is my assignment? Do you want me to look into Alfonso's death?"

Although his expression remained the same, Doujima got the oddest impression that Juliano was holding back a grimace. "If I said no, would it stop you?" He didn't wait for her answer; apparently the look on her face told him all that he needed to know. "I thought not. However, that is not your assignment. There are certain files that Alfonso had possession of, which SOLOMON needs. However, he had them hidden away, and told no one else where they could be found, before his death. Among these documents are the personnel files for Intelligence, an unfortunate dilemma which makes it impossible for us to name a successor for him. Without the files, there is no agency to run. Only he knew who and where all of his spies were." Juliano let out a long, heavy breath. "That is something else that he always refused to do. Long after the rest of SOLOMON had been computerized, he kept all of his records secret and safe, inaccessible to all but himself. We have found most of them in the cabinets in his office, but some are still lost to us." He pinned her to her seat with a look. "You knew him better than most others. If anyone can find what we seek, it is you."

He paused, and looked away, contemplating his coffee again. It had to be freezing cold by now; he hadn't taken a drink from it since before she had arrived. "As for Alfonso's death, I cannot stop you if you decide to dig deeper. But I can warn you of the dangers involved. You know as well as I that he was not a man who would be sit back and easily accept death, and yet there was no sign that he tried to defend himself against whatever power killed him. Whoever did this is dangerous, and I fear for you if you decide to pursue it."

Doujima tried to shoot him a devil-may-care grin, but it felt faint and insincere on her lips. "I like to live dangerously. It's funny, though; you're the third person to warn me about what a messy a situation I've gotten myself into." First Éloise, then Marco, and now Juliano.

"Perhaps you should take their warnings to heart." Even as he said it, she could tell that he didn't have much hope of convincing her. Predictably, she shook her head.

"I have to try to find out something. Sticking my nose where it doesn't belong is a part of my job, remember?" she replied flippantly.

"So it is," he murmured. He took a sip of his tepid cappuccino, and his mouth twisted downwards sharply for an instant at the flavor of it.

Their pizza arrived, and they sat in silence through the meal. Doujima ate without really tasting the food and, had Juliano asked her, she would have been unable to say whether or not her initial judgment on Venetian food had been correct. He didn't seem to be savoring the experience either, cutting neat, bite-sized pieces with his knife and eating them with a very efficient sort of haste. They finished the pizza between them, but there was little pleasure in the meal and silence hung heavy over the table as they ate. When she finally set down her fork and nudged the plate away, he stood.

"You may draw on whatever resources you require to find the files. I cannot stress their importance enough. You have full run of Intelligence's Venice offices." He reached into the folds of his black clothing, and removed another neatly folded piece of paper. This time, she recognized the graceful calligraphic writing on it. "I will be staying here if you need to contact me."

"Thank you, Father," she replied, tucking the piece of paper into the bag at her feet.

"I understand that you brought someone with you to Venice?"

Doujima didn't have to ask how he knew about Nagira. The walls had ears, after all. "Yes. I'll be sending him home as soon as possible. I know better than to let work and play mix."

Juliano nodded once, curtly, and set his hat on his head before turning to go.

"Father Juliano?"

He stopped and half-turned back to face her, giving her a good view of the harsh, hard lines of his profile. "Yes?"

"Aren't you going to wish me luck?"

He looked at her for a moment, then shook his head slowly. "Luck is an unreliable thing, Miss Doujima. It comes and it goes. I pray to God that you never need to rely on it." He slid his tinted glasses back up his nose, using them like a mask to hide his eyes and cheeks. "_Buongiorno_."

"_Arrivederci_," she murmured, and watched him go.

* * *

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

Notes: WiccanMethuselah is my marvelously talented beta reader. Most of the Italian used in this chapter is either fairly well known, or has already been defined, but the word _arrivederci_ means 'goodbye'. Stay tuned for the next chapter, which will involve Doujima doing something kinky with a _zaletti_. (Lies! All lies!) Edit: Juliano's uncredited Shakespeare quote is out of Henry IV, if I remember a-right.


	5. In Venice

'_I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;  
__A palace and a prison on each hand:  
__I saw from out the wave her structures rise  
__As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand:  
__A thousand years their cloudy wings expand  
__Around me, and a dying Glory smiles.'_

- Lord Byron, 'Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.'

* * *

Chapter Five: In Venice

The magazine that Nagira had found abandoned on the room's nightstand might have been more entertaining if it hadn't been Italian. He thought that it had probably been left by whoever had occupied the room before them, since he was reasonably certain that Doujima had not started reading bridal periodicals. Or, maybe she had, and he had some serious worrying to do.

The note that had been lying discarded on top of the magazine had been a little more interesting, simply because of the mystery that it provided. However, there was only so much time he could spend wondering about _who _Doujima had gone running out to meet, and _why _she was going to meet them. After finally witnessing them up close, he was starting to find his girlfriend's spy-games a little bit amusing. When one of _his _contacts wanted to see him, they called his phone or sent him a text message, rather than mailing him vague and ominous notes. With electronics becoming easier to tap, there were some advantages to such archaic methods, and they _did _have a certain sort of style to them, but it all seemed awfully inefficient to him. He _knew_ that SOLOMON had more modern ways of communicating; all of his brother's high-tech toys were a testament to that... in spite of that, though, there were times when the organization seemed almost frighteningly old-fashioned about things.

Nagira glanced up from the glossy pages of his magazine when the door to the room swung open. After casting a lingering, appreciative stare at the long expanse of leg left bare by the short hem of Doujima's dress, he rose to meet her at the door.

There was a strange, shadowed look to her eyes... tired, and obviously unhappy. It puzzled him because, while he had seen her serious, he couldn't remember ever seeing Doujima _sad_. He wondered whether it would be wise to ask what had gone wrong but, before he got a chance, she noticed that he was watching her. The weariness on her face melted away immediately, to be replaced by a small, impish smile that might have seemed sincere, if only he hadn't seen how raw she had looked when she first entered.

While he was well aware of the fact that Doujima was a talented liar, and exceptionally good at hiding what was going on in that little blond head of hers, it was rare for her to bother with such obvious deception when they were together. For this reason, Nagira always found it faintly disturbing when she _did_ try to hide from him. He was used to emotional distance from those nearest and dearest to him but, unlike Amon's cold implacability and mile-high walls, Doujima seemed to be able to conjure up a whole new persona at will. A colorful, delicate mask of sentiments that was almost impossible to tell apart from the real thing, but a mask all the same.

He knew that, if he asked now, she would simply pretend confusion and refuse to answer the question. It would frustrate him and make an even bigger liar out of her, so he instead reached out to hook an arm around her shoulders, and pulled her forward until he could place a light kiss against her forehead. Doujima seemed to appreciate the gesture, leaning into his embrace and, when she finally pulled back, the smile on her face seemed a little more genuine. Although they had been lovers for some time now, it felt strange to him. There had been very few really tender moments between them, and Nagira had to admit that he was probably more comfortable with the pure physical attraction and witty banter.

"How'd your super-secret spying activities go?" he asked dryly.

Doujima flashed him a playful smirk. "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."

He watched as she cast a restless glance around the room, the door still open behind her. "You want to go out?" she asked, with a suddenness that made him instantly suspicious. "You should get to see Venice."

Nagira was skeptical. "Get to see the inside of the shops of Venice, you mean?" He knew her well enough to know that _'see Venice'_ probably meant something along the lines of _'see Venice's finest boutiques, and carry my purchases while you're at it.'_

"No shopping, I promise," she replied. The shocked look he gave her was only half-feigned. Yurika Doujima didn't want to shop?

Something really _was_ wrong.

She rolled her eyes at him, and reached out to catch the front of his shirt, giving him an insistent little tug towards the door. Nagira shook his head, but relented, letting her yank him out of the room. "Fine, just don't drag me all over the city like you did last night. My poor smoker's lungs won't survive it."

"Well, I wouldn't want to wear you out," she said coyly, and gave him an almost ridiculously sultry glance from beneath lowered lashes. She walked down the stairs backwards so that she could continue to speak to him. "We'll only walk a little while. Then we can catch the ferry the rest of the way."

"The rest of the way _where_?"

"You'll see."

Her deliberately evasive answer made him laugh but, beneath her glib exterior, she still seemed distant and distracted. As they made their way through the narrow Venetian streets, she would point out landmarks, or rattle off a word or a phrase in Italian, but he couldn't help but feel that her mind was focused on something other than the tangle of roads and waterways before them.

The walk was short, as she had promised. They drew to a halt when they came to the edge of the water; not just a small little canal, but one wide enough for the buildings on the opposite side to seem distant. There was a handful of tables scattered near the canal's bank and, at the end of the street, he saw what he could now recognize as a ferry stop. Doujima came to a halt near one of the tables. "Wait here," she commanded, half-pushing him into a seat.

He cast her a wounded look. "You're getting as bossy as Hanamura."

"I've been taking lessons," was her retort.

"It's kind of sexy."

"I hope you're talking about me, and not Hanamura."

When Nagira's only response was to grin, she poked him in the chest and sauntered off into a nearby building. According to the words written on its blue-striped awning, it was the 'Gelateria Nico,' but that didn't tell him much. Whatever it was, it was certainly crowded, with people spilling out the door and onto the sidewalk, and packing themselves tightly into the surrounding tables. He might have worried about how long Doujima would take inside, but the woman had an eerie way of making her way to the front of a line without anyone being the wiser. He had seen it when she was shopping, time and again, and it was _almost_ to the point where he would call it magic.

Sure enough, she was back within five minutes, while the rest of the people waiting hadn't even moved. In her hands was a paper cup, containing what appeared to be ice-cream. Except ice-cream didn't stick to the spoon so thickly that it seemed like it was going to overrun the utensil at any given moment. Really, it looked more like a cup of chocolate-flavored wet cement than anything else.

"_Gelato_," Doujima explained smugly. When she pulled the spoon out of the cup, the _gelato_ made a gentle wet _sucking _sound, as though it was reluctant to relinquish its plastic prize. Nagira eyed the spoon dubiously as she held it out to him, but leaned forward gamely to take a bite.

It was indeed some kind of ice-cream, although he had never tasted anything quite like it, cold and thick where the spoon rested against his tongue. It was almost unbearably rich, so heavy with flavor that he didn't think that he'd be able to manage more than a few mouthfuls, much less a cup full of the stuff. He closed his eyes as it slowly melted away, and sucked in his cheeks, making a show out of savoring it.

When he opened his eyes again, he found Doujima watching him with a little smile that contained a lot of mischief, and just a touch of something else... regret, perhaps, which made absolutely no sense to him. "You know," she said speculatively, "The _gelateria_ sells chocolate sauce, too."

He choked back a laugh, his hands moving to rest at her waist, right above the gentle swell of her hips. "Huh. Really? But if you buy a bottle of chocolate sauce, I don't think I'll get to see much of more of Venice outside of the hotel room."

"You're probably right," Doujima agreed, and leaned in to kiss him. Her mouth tasted like _gelato_.

The easily recognizable chug-and-grind of one of the public ferries reached him, and he reluctantly released her. She heard it too, and stepped back away from his chair so that he could stand. He felt a little thrill at the sight of her, her lips kiss-swollen and her feathery blond hair rumpled by the slight breeze coming off the canal. There really was something undeniably arousing about a woman who was both self-assured and potentially dangerous.

"That's our boat," she informed him teasingly, "Unless you're reconsidering the chocolate sauce."

Nagira snorted, and hustled her towards the ferry landing. "Maybe later." He snagged the _gelato_ cup out of her hands and, although she shot him a scandalized look at the theft of her desert, she didn't argue. "Since when are you into the whole tourist thing, anyway?"

The vague, cagey look that she gave him was enough to make him want to check and make sure that his wallet was still resting within his pocket. "I'm not, really," she replied. "Like I said, I thought that you should have a chance to see Venice."

"You're up to something."

Her grin felt half-hearted at best. "Always." Nagira frowned at her as they stepped onto the boat, but she refused to elaborate. Secretive, as always. There were times when dating a spy became a real pain in the ass. Of course, the perks involved were considerable enough that he usually didn't mind that she was a pain in the ass.

The boat whirred to life again and glided out onto the canal, cutting a sharp path through the water.

"What's with the lion with wings?" he asked, in part simply so that he could draw a response out of her, and have an answer to _a_ question, even if it wasn't an important one. Besides, he was curious. The lion design seemed to be _everywhere_, adorning street corners and public buildings, and any other place that tourists were supposed to frequent.

"_Pax tibi, Marce, Evangelista meus_," Doujima murmured laughingly, "That's St. Mark's lion, and those are supposedly the words that an angel spoke to him when he was shipwrecked outside of Venice. Or, at least, that's the story that the Venetians used to justify stealing his cadaver from Alexandria."

"Huh?"

She transferred her amused gaze to him. "Renaissance Venice had some sort of ghoulish mania for stealing the bodies of saints from other cities. If I remember, they smuggled Mark's body past Egyptian customs in a barrel of pickled pork."

Nagira shook his head. "Nicecity you've got here, Yurika. Any other little tidbits to share, now that you've told me about the sanctified jerky?"

"Tastes just like chicken," she said lightly, and he tried not to grimace at the image that her words invoked. He looked down at the _gelato_ in his hand, and passed it back to her, suddenly not hungry. She accepted the paper cup triumphantly, scooping up a spoonful of the melting delicacy and plopping it into her mouth.

The boat rounded the triangular tip of the peninsula that made up the _sestiere_ of Dorsoduro, and floated into the _vaporetto _landing. Doujima guided him off of the ferryboat, and waved her hand in a grandiose gesture to indicate that they had arrived at their destination. A gracefully domed building loomed over the landing, its steps nearly touching the water. The stone walls were so pale that they almost appeared white, especially with the summer sunshine reflecting off of them; Grecian columns framed a set of enormous black doors. There were statues depicting angels and saints in alcoves near the doors, as well as bordering the roof, so Nagira thought that it might be a church. The statuary aside, it didn't look like any church _he_ had ever seen. It was too lushly rounded and elaborately decorated, in spite of the stark color of the walls.

"Santa Maria della Salute," Doujima explained, her blue eyes lingering on the delicate curves and lines of the church. "Built as a thanks to the Madonna for saving Venice from the plague." She glanced sideways at him, one brow cocked. "Do you want to go in?"

He shrugged, and dipped a hand into the pocket of his slacks to remove his pack of cigarettes and lighter. He ran a thumb over the wax-paper surface of the pack, inhaling the sweet scent of unlit tobacco, then used the tip of his finger to fish out a cigarette. "I'm not too big on churches."

To his surprise, she reached out and took his lighter with the hand that wasn't holding the _gelato_, flicking it open and holding it so that he could light his cigarette. "Me neither. I always thought that _Salute_ was a little creepy, actually. There's this arch inside, above the altar... It's supposed to be the Madonna expelling the plague and saving _Venezia_, but she always just looked pissed off to me."

Nagira lit his cigarette and took his lighter back, pocketing it and the pack once again. He took a deep drag, then smirked at her. "Guilty conscience, Yurika?" he suggested jokingly.

"Maybe," she agreed, followed by a very indelicate snort. She tossed the now-liquefied remains of the _gelato_ into a nearby trash bin, then motioned to one side of the church. "Are you ready to move on, then?"

He thought about asking _'move on to where?'_ but thought it unlikely that he'd get a straight answer. Doujima hooked her arm through one of his, and he allowed her to pull him around the side of the church, always a step ahead of him, like an insistent child. For a moment, he was reminded of just how _young_ she really was; not even twenty yet. Just as Robin had always acted older than her fifteen years, Doujima had never seemed like a teenager to him, even when she was playing at being an idiot.

There didn't seem to be much time for childhood among SOLOMON's operatives. Yet another thing to dislike about the syndicate.

They crossed a narrow plaza, or _campo_, passing by a closed-up art museum. The building that she led him towards was blockier than Santa Maria della Salute had been, but had the same pale walls and general feeling of age to it. It was neatly wedged onto the very tip of the Dorsoduro peninsula, held above the water by some architectural miracle. Like many of Venice's older buildings, the roof was made of red tile and, at the far end, he could make out some sort of sculpture hanging above the canal... A large golden ball, with what looked like a statue of a naked woman standing on top of it. The figure at the top shifted suddenly in the breeze, and he realized that it was a weather vane.

"What on earth is that?" Nagira asked, both because he wanted to know and because he knew that Doujima expected the question.

"The _Dogana di Mare_, or Sea Customs Post," she explained, as they walked through the entrance. "Where cargo ships were inspected before being allowed entrance to the city. Not really exciting, I know, but it has the best view."

He turned a little to look at her, surprised that she knew about all this – he appreciated, by now, that Doujima was a lot smarter than she pretended to be, but his little clotheshorse girlfriend hardly seemed like the sort to have any interest in the history of a place, much less remember that history after being gone for years. "You're better than a tour guide. You really love this place, don't you?"

Doujima seemed startled by his question. Perhaps she hadn't intended to show that much of herself. "Venice? Sure. It has... personality." He watched as she considered, then decided to elaborate. "There are so many myths about it, so many illusions. Smoke and mirrors. I always had fun when I was younger, trying to figure out what the truth of it was, behind the facade." She sighed softly, her eyes running over the interior of the Dogana di Mare. "It really is a beautiful facade."

It was sad, when he thought about it, that she could fall in love with a place because of its lies. A beautiful facade, she called it... Maybe she felt that she and the city had something in common with each other.

Of course, her canals didn't stink. The somewhat vulgar thought made him grin a little and, although he didn't speak it aloud, he doubted that Yurika would have been offended if he had. God knew that she had said worse to him since they had begun seeing eachother. However, it didn't really seem like the time, and even he wasn't tactless enough to go making rude jokes when she had just shared a rare piece of personal information.

Instead, he walked with her to one of the Dogana's many windows. Even though the place was as packed with sightseers as everywhere else in Venice, they were left in relative isolation to gaze across the Grand Canal, which he thought might have had something to do with a few well-planted elbows on Doujima's part.

Across the canal lay a truly magnificent view of the very heart of Venice, the Piazza San Marco. One by one, Doujima named the buildings there: St. Mark's Basilica, with its exotic spires and arches just barely visible over the rooftops; the gravity-defying Palazzo Ducale, the very picture of elegance in white Istrian stone and red Verona marble; the towering height of the Campanile...

"...and that's the Ponte della Paglia," she murmured, pointing at a bridge. "Beyond it is the Bridge of Sighs – the _Ponte dei Sospiri_, in Italian – where prisoners were led between the Doge's Palace and the prisons. It was also Mickey Mouse's stronghold when he attempted to take over Italy in the name of EuroDisney..."

He cast her a droll look. "I _was _listening."

The smile on her face was a blend of baiting and flirtatious. Nagira had long ago begun to suspect that banter was what amounted to foreplay between them. "Just checking."

Despite the reassurance that he was paying attention, Doujima didn't seem to want to continue her narrative. She stared across the canal, her face closed-off and thoughtful. He was reminded again of what he had seen when she had entered the hotel room earlier, that eerie loss of confidence and vibrancy that seemed so unlike her. In the sudden flurry of activity, he had almost forgotten about it, and he wondered if that had been her intention from the start. "You alright, little lady? You seem a bit quiet."

She turned her head and flashed him a smile. "I only seem quiet because I've been talking non-stop since we left the hotel," she teased.

Once again, he realized that she was trying to evade him. He sighed and used one of the Dogana's ancient stone walls to grind out his cigarette. He was sorely tempted to light another one once it was gone; he had the feeling that he was going to need it. "That's not an answer, Yurika."

A grimace stole across her features briefly, before she turned her face away again, presenting him with a view of her profile. She seemed to be struggling with something, her brows drawn downwards in a very slight frown. "Something's come up," she said, finally. "I think that it might be best if you left Italy."

Silence greeted her pronouncement, before a low chuckle escaped his throat. She dragged her startled gaze back to him at the unexpected sound. "So, that's what today was. A nice way of telling me to kiss off. Better than a 'Dear John', I guess." He shifted so that he could lean a shoulder against the wall near the window, and arched a brow. "What happened? Your superiors at SOLOMON tell you to get rid of me before I cause any trouble?"

The little frown on her face now appeared more annoyed than troubled. All the same, she kept her voice blithe and careless, so patently false that even the most trusting of souls would have spotted the lie in her demeanor. "It's for your own good, really. I don't want to involve you in SOLOMON business." She gave him a very pointed stare. "You don't want to _be_ involved in SOLOMON business."

That made him shrug; he couldn't deny the truth of what she said. He never liked to get tied up with SOLOMON, but he also hadn't let it stop him from getting involved in the past. Nor would he let it prevent his involvement now, if it came to that. "Yeah. The Factory was SOLOMON business too. What is it this time?"

"Someone died." It was a flat response, and in that moment she sounded eerily like his brother. Nagira wondered if the STN really _did_ brainwash them.

Probably.

"Someone you knew?" he guessed.

Her expression softened marginally. "Yes. My mentor, Alfonso. He was in charge of SOLOMON's intelligence agency."

That comment raised mixed feelings in Nagira. While he regretted that someone close to her had died, he really couldn't bring himself to feel sorry that it had been someone high up in the syndicate. For a moment he was conflicted, wavering between his own differing opinions, but in the end, sympathy for the woman in front of him won out.

He was starting to think that Doujima unknowingly had him completely wrapped around her little finger, even if he wouldn't acknowledge it.

Rather than indulge in the long-suffering sigh that was trying escape his lips, Nagira fished out another cigarette and placed it in his mouth. He didn't light it right away; instead, he continued to scrutinize her. "I'm sorry to hear that. I'm not leaving, though."

His voice was a study in nonchalance, and he stifled a smile when a tiny, disbelieving noise escaped her throat. She might have him wrapped around her finger, but it sure as hell didn't mean that he was going to do as she said. Nor did it mean that he couldn't get a certain amount of pleasure out of goading her, sometimes.

"You don't even _like_ SOLOMON," she said, as if this was supposed to change things. Actually, he suspected that she, herself, wasn't too fond of the organization that she worked for. However, since he also suspected that she was in rather heavy denial about her own dislike, he knew better than to mention it.

"I told you, it's not the first time I've had to get my hands dirty digging around in SOLOMON's problems. Last time, I got drawn in because of Amon; this time it's because of you." He gave another no-big-deal shrug, then smirked. "Besides, I said it then, and I'll say it again now: I just can't bear to stand by and watch."

Doujima eyed him narrowly. "And what makes you think that I'm going to _let_ you stay?"

It was his turn to give her a pointed stare. "How do you plan to stop me?" He tried to ask the question in a calm, rational tone, but had the feeling that he ended up sounding smug.

She huffed indignantly, her eyes narrowing even further. "There are ways."

When he didn't respond, she let out another soft, irritated huff. Then she shook her head, and threw up her hands in defeat. "Fine. You're staying?"

The smile on his face was _definitely_ smug now. "I'm staying."

Doujima was silent for a moment. "I'm glad," she said finally, quietly.

The matter-of-fact comment floored him, but he did his best not to show it. He removed the still-unlit cigarette from his mouth, and tapped it back into the pack in his pocket before slinging a friendly arm around her shoulders. She remained tense for a moment, as if to show him that, in spite of her words, she still wasn't entirely happy with the situation. Then she curled into his side, her hip resting lightly against his own and her fingers hooking comfortably through one of his belt loops. "Now there, wasn't that easy? C'mon, you didn't think that I'd let you run around and cause trouble all on your own, did you? I've _seen_ some of the shit that you guys get into." He clucked his tongue disapprovingly, something that he had learned from Mika. "You kids and your wild escapades."

She scowled, but he got the feeling that she was more amused than offended. "Don't push your luck, Syunji."

"Yeah, yeah," he replied, and waved off her warning with his free hand. "Let's go back to the hotel. All this sunshine and fresh air is bad for my health."

"I hear that it can cause cancer," she agreed readily. The trip back to the hotel passed in silence, but it was a strangely comfortable silence, more comfortable than her forced conversation on Venice had been earlier. Even though she had protested, he couldn't help but feel that Doujima had been telling the truth when she had said that she was glad, and was relieved that he had decided to stick around. Something in her seemed to have relaxed, and the strained quality she had possessed when she had returned from her lunch had all but disappeared. When he reached up a hand to absently stroke her hair as they walked, she practically _purred_, her arm tightening around his waist.

It confirmed a long-held suspicion of his: that, for a man who was used to keeping his love affairs short and relatively superficial, he was in _way_ over his head.

Nagira considered the notion, then shrugged philosophically. He would worry about that when it became an issue. For now, with Doujima very nearly draped across his side, he was more concerned with contemplating the alternate uses of chocolate sauce than with how attached he was becoming to the woman.

The lawyer was surprised to find that Marco was standing on the sidewalk outside of the Hotel Pausania, wearing his black leather jacket in spite of the heat, and glowering at anyone who came near him. Doujima didn't seem to expect him either, and she disentangled herself from Nagira to confront the other spy.

"Marco," she said carefully, as if she thought that he might bite. "You could've been a bit more specific about the 'changes' in Venice."

The man grunted dismissively, seemingly unfazed by her accusation. "No, I couldn't have, and you know it. I was given strict instructions, and they would have handed me my ass on a silver platter if I disobeyed them. This isn't Alfonso we're getting orders from now, where we were allowed a bit of leeway... This is _SOLOMON Headquarters_. Do you know what that means?"

"Probably better than most," Doujima murmured.

Marco gave her a sharp glance out of canny dark eyes. "That's right, you would."

Nagira was confused at first by what the other man meant by that, but he had not successfully worked against SOLOMON-Japan for so many years without becoming pretty canny himself. He remembered what Doujima had said the previous night._ 'My father more or less lives in Rome... when I said that my parents were high up in SOLOMON? It wasn't one of my lies.'_ Even he knew that SOLOMON Headquarters called Rome its home-base... So, he had to wonder, exactly how high up in the brotherhood _was_ her father?

Something in Marco's comment obviously bothered her and, although she was trying to hide it, the older spy seemed to have realized his mistake as well, because he quickly shifted the subject. "You-know-who sent me," he said, his eyes flicking towards Nagira, in a way that told him that the obvious subterfuge was for his benefit alone. "He said that your Mr. Nagira might be wanting a flight back to Japan, and that I should arrange it."

"How kind of Juliano," she replied wryly, "but unnecessary. Syunji isn't going back to Japan. You don't need to keep using euphemisms, either. I'm going to tell him everything as soon as we get back up to the hotel room." Nagira was a bit skeptical about that, although he kept his mouth shut. He was pretty sure that Doujima's definition of 'tell him everything' would include considerable editing on her part but, at the moment, he was almost willing to settle for 'tell him _anything_'. He felt a moment's longing for Japan, where he could have used his network of informants to check whatever information she gave him, and to find out more.

A soft hiss escaped through Marco's teeth. "This isn't wise, Yurika. Like I said, HQ is in charge now, and we're going to have to start toeing the line. Bringing an outsider into our affairs isn't the way to do that, and it's going to get you – and _him_ – into a whole lot of trouble."

"No it won't," Doujima said, wryly, and with a sardonic twist of the lips. "Like you pointed out, I'm _special_. I'll have to do a lot worse before I get into any real trouble." She shrugged. "Juliano said that I could draw on whatever resources I needed to complete this mission. Well, I'm choosing to draw on a resource _outside_ of SOLOMON."

That startled a laugh out of Marco. "You're purposely misinterpreting his orders, and you know it. But go right ahead, that's your mistake to make. Just as long as you don't drag the rest of us down with you." He hesitated, then blew out a breath, sounding much like a frustrated horse. "I didn't mean anything by what I said before, you know."

"I know," she replied, the corners of her mouth turning upwards. "_Mi famiglia_ just isn't one of my favorite subjects. Had I been an orphan, I'd be happier today."

Nagira thought that the other man might balk at the comment, but he just laughed again. "From what I know of your father, I believe it. I should take you home with me to Sicily sometime; my wife, Lucia, she'd love to feed you up." His voice rose to a clipped falsetto that was undoubtedly supposed to be an imitation of his wife. "'You too skinny! How we going to find you a husband, _passerotta_, if you so skinny?'" He glanced at Nagira again, and chuckled. "Although you might have that covered all on your own. Mr. Nagira, how did a nice man like you get mixed up with this little trouble-maker?"

"She knocked me over the head and locked me in a hotel room with her for a day."

Marco snorted. "I'm somehow not surprised. Maybe I shouldn't take you home, Yurika. You'd probably be a bad influence on my daughters." He flipped up the collar of his jacket, and turned to go. "I'll leave you two lovebirds alone. Give me a call when you actually intend to get some work done."

The response that Doujima made to him was less than polite, and included an accompanying gesture. Marco waved pleasantly before trotting off down the street. Even though he whistled under his breath as he went, Nagira noticed that there was a hunched quality to his shoulders, and his steps were hurried.

"He's scared of something," Nagira said. He looked at Doujima, whose good mood seemed to have evaporated with Marco's visit.

"A lot of things scare Marco," she replied thoughtlessly as they entered the lobby. "One of these days, I expect to find him running around outside, screaming, 'The sky is falling! The sky is falling!'"

"You're sure he doesn't have good reason to be scared? SOLOMON Headquarters sounds pretty fearsome."

Doujima frowned at him, as if to say, _'don't you go starting on that again.'_ "You're still welcome to leave, if you want to. You don't have to—"

One of his hands rose to forestall her protest, and she fell silent. "That wasn't what I was saying." He sighed softly; it really was no use arguing with her about SOLOMON. Nor did he think that it would do him any good to remind her that _Juliano_ was the name of the man whom she, herself, had told him had ordered Robin's hunt. He could ask her about that later, when she wasn't feeling quite so defensive about her precious _confraria_.

He placed his hands on her shoulders, and guided her up the stairs. "Come on. I think it's time for you to do some explaining."

* * *

Doujima stood on the Ponte della Paglia, and stared down the narrow corridor between the Doge's Palace and the crumbling gray walls of the prisons. The Bridge of Sighs was before her, a clean white arch reflected in the murky waters of the canal below. Beside her stood Alfonso, who was feeding a flock of pigeons from a platter full of so-called Venetian delicacies – _kranz_, _pan di Dogi_ and, of course, _zaletti_.

They were probably put to better use feeding the pigeons than feeding people, she thought.

"_Come stai?"_

She blinked at the old man's question, and shifted so that one of her hips was resting against the stone rail of the bridge. "I'm fine."

Alfonso shooed the pigeons away, and they took off in a flurry of wildly beating gray wings. He balanced the platter on the edge of the railing, then turned towards her. He looked much as she remembered him; dressed in an oversized white linen suit and shiny black loafers, with a cigar and a watch hanging out of the pocket of his jacket, and his hair slicked back behind his ears.

"You're dead," Doujima added, her tone conversational. She felt that peculiar distance that came only in dreams, a kind of hazy numbness that made it so that even the irrational made sense. Alfonso could have been sitting on a unicycle and wearing a clown nose, and she probably would have greeted him with the same calm composure.

"No I'm not," he replied, quite cheerfully. "_Alfonso_ is dead. _I'm_ a delusion produced by your grief-fevered psyche. But let's not split hairs."

He didn't wait for her to respond, raising his chin to look at her. "You're in too deep, my girl. You know that, right?"

"I would, except I'm not," she relied, as snootily as she could, and he let out a cackle in response.

"Yes, well, you always were a confident one."

"Why are you here?"

Alfonso tilted his head to one side, a wicked smile on his thin lips. "Beats me."

"Oh, well, that helps," Doujima muttered. "When you dream about your dead mentor, isn't he supposed to impart esoteric wisdom, or something?

He shrugged. "I wasn't aware that there was a code of conduct for this sort of thing." He scooped the dish with the pastries up again, and presented them to her with a grin that said that he knew exactly how she felt about Venetian deserts. "Pick your poison?"

"Even in my dreams, you're an evil old bastard," she informed him. All the same, she plucked a piece of _zaletti_ off the plate. Holding it delicately between her thumb and forefinger, she took a bite, and grimaced as the taste of maize filled her mouth.

"As in life, so also in death," he replied, and selected a morsel for himself before setting down the platter again. He turned his gaze to the heavy stone curve of the Bridge of Sighs. His expression became thoughtful, the many lines on his face deepening with concentration. "_La Serenissima_. I loved it here."

"I know," Doujima said quietly. "You're the one who showed it to me."

"It's strange, isn't it, to grow so attached to mortar and clay?" The elbows of his white suit caught on the rough stone of the bridge's railing as he leaned forward. She thought that she caught the faint scent of cigar smoke coming from him, a smell strongly tied to her memories of the old man. "I suppose that's the charm of home."

"'Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in'?"

The sound that he made was strange, somewhere between a grunt and a chuckle. "It's a nice sentiment. I don't think that's it, though. Maybe it's that we see a reflection of ourselves in it." He jerked his chin towards the Bridge of Sighs. "Take this place for instance. According to popular myth, it was used to walk criminals between the prisons and the interrogation rooms in the Doge's Palace. And that's us, isn't it? Prisoners. Prisoners on a bridge of straw. _Paglia_. Straw. The _Ponte della Paglia_." He chortled at his own play on words, then took a big bite out of the piece of _kranz_ in his hand.

Doujima nibbled at her own pastry absently, not even noticing the unpleasant flavor this time. "I've never been too good at the whole metaphorical thing. You're going to have to explain it better than that."

"Oh, you know what I mean. But I don't think you're ready to accept it, not yet." Alfonso saw her giving him a dirty look, and grinned. "What? You're the one who asked for esoteric."

"I should have known better."

He didn't respond.

"Who killed you, _maestro_?" she asked suddenly.

Alfonso laughed, arching one thin white brow at her. "Damned if I know. I'm just a figment of your imagination, remember?"

Her silence was answer enough. She hadn't remembered.

The world around them seemed to have grown blurry, white around the edges like an over-exposed photograph. Doujima looked down off the bridge, surprised to find that she couldn't even see the water of the canal through the haze.

"Who do you trust?"

The abrupt question startled her. "What?"

"Who do you trust?"

She turned. There was no longer anyone standing beside her. The end of the bridge, the wall of the Doge's Palace... It was all indistinct, as though a thick layer of fog had suddenly descended on the area.

"_Who do you trust?"_

Doujima woke suddenly. The sun was just setting outside the window, and a quick glance around the room told her that Nagira wasn't there. She thought that she recalled him saying something about having run out of cigarettes, but she couldn't remember when he had left to buy more. For that matter, she couldn't remember falling asleep, curled up on top of the blankets on the still neatly-made bed.

The taste of maize still lingered heavily on her tongue.

* * *

Disclaimer: Of the many things which do not belong to me, _Witch Hunter Robin_ is one.

Notes: ...I told you that I was lying about the _zaletti_.Once again, most of the locations depicted in this chapter are actual places, and I've represented them as accurately as possible. _'Pax tibi, Marce, Evangelista meus'_ is Latin, and means something along the lines of 'peace to you, Mark, my Evangelist.' _Mi famiglia_ means 'my family' in Italian, and _passerotta_ is a term of endearment which means 'little sparrow.' The question _come stai?_ translates to 'how are you?' Many thanks to WiccanMethuselah for continuing to beta read this. Coming up next, _Into My Head_. The investigation into Alfonso's death begins, and Charlie once again enters the picture. Edit: Quote from Doujima is out of "Death of a Hired Man," by Robert Frost. It seems that I was mad crazy for the quoting in these first few chapters.


	6. Into My Head

' "_Prying, and peeping, and listening are the natural  
__occupations of people situated as we are... The horrid  
__mystery hanging over us in this house gets into my head  
__like liquor, and makes me wild." '_

- Wilkie Collins, 'The Moonstone.'

* * *

Chapter Six: Into My Head

Nagira had returned to the room soon after Doujima had awoken from her dream, armed with a new pack of cigarettes and a bag of take-out from the seafood restaurant down the street. Doujima had spent a while picking at her plate of _risotti di mare_ and _seppie alla veneziana_ under the lawyer's vigilant eye, before she finally gave up on the food and pushed it aside, watching, instead, with a mild sense of awe, as Nagira wolfed down what was left of the cuttlefish with truly amazing speed.

The evening wore on. Twilight deepened into true darkness, and the street outside grew quiet as people retired for the day.

Doujima didn't sleep that night. In the morning, she called Marco.

She had been intending to let Nagira continue to sleep while she went to meet her fellow spy – unlike her, Nagira wasn't suffering from strange and disturbing dreams, and he hadn't had any trouble falling asleep the previous night. However, when she stepped out of the shower, she found him waiting for her, fully dressed and already holding a lit cigarette between his fingers.

The look that he gave her told her that he knew full well that she had planned to leave him behind. She shrugged apologetically and, just like that, her last-ditch effort to keep him out of SOLOMON's business was abandoned.

The early morning sky was still dark when they stepped outside, although there was a lightening along the horizon that told her that sunrise wasn't far off. Doujima thought that her associates at the STN-J would have been shocked beyond belief to see her up and about at such an early hour. At Nagira's urging, they stopped at a bakery to get coffee for her and an oven-warmed _cornetto_ for him. In spite of her disdain for Venetian baked goods, she wasn't surprised to see him devour it quickly and without comment. Nagira was not a picky eater, and he had a stomach like a lead vault; nothing much damaged it.

Doujima had arranged to meet Marco at Alfonso's office, a decaying building in the _sestiere_ of San Marco which had, until recently, housed the very core of SOLOMON Intelligence. She led Nagira through narrow, familiar streets, and they caught a ferry from the Dorsoduro side of the Grand Canal to the Piazza San Marco. From there, she hired a water-taxi, one of the speedy little motor-boats that charged by the hour. It wasn't quite as expensive as hiring a gondola to convey them around the city, but it came close. However, money had never been something that she had worried about, and now, with SOLOMON funding her, it wasn't something that she was going to start worrying about.

The water-taxi made its way back up the Grand Canal and into the network of smaller canals that laced the _sestiere_. Doujima settled into a seat for the ride, and Nagira didn't so much stand beside her as lounge against the back of her seat, alternately taking puffs on his cigarette and making grabs at the paper coffee cup that she still clung to. After her sleepless night, she stubbornly refused to share with him. The caffeine was too precious. Even if she had never really acquired a taste for the rich bitterness of cappuccino, she needed to be alert for the task that lay ahead. After a while, he gave up, lighting another cigarette and staring at the passing buildings meditatively.

Somewhat amused, Doujima realized that he was wearing his trademark white coat, even though July in Northern Italy was hardly cold. She remembered a time when she had hated that coat, had spent long hours teasing him about it, and speculating about what had been used to create the fluffy monstrosity (her favorite theory still being that he had, somehow, formed it out of his own bleached back hair). It had long ago ceased to bother her, fashion-driven as she was, and it even seemed kind of sexy now, a part of that strange charm that he had. It would have been pretty to think that she was the only one so strongly affected by him, but she wasn't. She had seen other women melt when his lips curled into a slow smirk, had listened as he talked his way out of a sticky situation with that wise-cracking film-noir-detective drawl of his. There was something undeniably attractive about a man who could act the part of a do-gooder while maintaining all the rough mannerisms and roguish appeal of a scoundrel.

Not that she wouldn't be overjoyed if the coat were to _accidentally _fall into the lagoon during their trip, and never be seen again.

The little boat zipped through the canals, no doubt breaking several of the city's speed regulations, and turned the corner onto the _Rio di San Zulian_ so sharply that Nagira had to reach out and steady himself against her shoulder. The driver slowed down dramatically once they had actually reached the canal, and finally floated to a stop at their destination, a postage-stamp sized dock outside of a crumbling brick-walled building. Like many of Venice's older houses, the two-story building that held Alfonso's office had two main entrances. One entrance faced the street, and the other opened up onto the water.

The weather-aged boards of the little dock creaked unsteadily as they stepped off the boat, so warped with constant exposure to the elements that Doujima could actually see the murky water below through the cracks in the boards. There was a little motor-boat tethered to one side, and unlike both the house and the dock, it seemed to be in good repair. One of the reasons that Alfonso had liked the somewhat decrepit building was because there were so many ways to get into and out of it. He had made a great many enemies in his line of work, both within SOLOMON and outside of it. He had always felt that a spy could never be too careful, and his paranoia, along with a wicked intellect and a keen instinct for trouble, had gotten him out of more tight scrapes than she could count.

Even that hadn't saved him, in the end.

She paid the taxi-driver an exorbitant tip, in spite of his reckless driving, and he sped off in the opposite direction, towards the giant, snake-like curve of the Grand Canal. Doujima watched the boat disappear, strangely reluctant to enter the building where her mentor had died. Not that her reluctance would stop her from doing her job. There was no real reason to be avoiding the site, every reason _not_ to avoid it, and she was much more pragmatic sometimes than people gave her credit for.

Nagira made no move to hurry her inside, acting as though he had nothing better to do than leisurely smoke what was now his third cigarette of the day, and prod at the withered boards beneath them with the toe of his shiny black loafer. The boards creaked ominously, but that didn't seem to deter Nagira.

She watched him for a long moment, before reaching for the door. It swung open before her hand without her having touched it. Charlie stood on the other side.

Doujima hadn't seen the other spy since his brief stay in Japan and, outwardly, he was no different – a tall, twenty-something year old man with sandy hair and an unremarkable, sun-reddened face. When she looked closer, she noticed that there were shadows under his pale-lashed eyes, and lines around his mouth where there hadn't been any before. Grief was probably part of it, but it looked as though the past few weeks had not been kind to Charlie. That wasn't much of a surprise. With Alfonso dead, and her in Japan, he probably knew the most about the inner workings of SOLOMON Intelligence. He had been acting as Alfonso's assistant for the past few years, and although they had never shared the same close, mentoring relationship that she had enjoyed, she rather suspected that Alfonso had been primping the younger man as his replacement. It seemed that Charlie would be taking over earlier than expected, unprepared and ill-equipped.

Well, maybe she could help with the ill-equipped part. If she managed to find the personnel files, at least he would have an agency to run. Until then, he had no way of even knowing who his spies were.

Although, it seemed that until she was done with this assignment, Charlie wouldn't have to worry about running anything. According to Juliano, _she _was in charge until she located the files. It was an intimidating thought. Doujima didn't _want_ to be in charge of anything.

"Hello," he said, awkwardly, she thought. He ran one large hand over his hair, flattening it to his head, and then reached out as if to hug her. He stopped short, and finally just stretched out a hand to give her a clumsy pat on the shoulder. "Are you alright?"

She shrugged, just as uncomfortable as he was. "Sure." Even though her voice remained carelessly good-humored when she spoke, it was a lie, and they both knew it. Hell, she was pretty sure that Nagira, who had stopped courting disaster with the dock in favor of watching their conversation, knew it. It was a rather unconvincing lie, as far as her lies went. "_You_ look like death warmed over," she added.

"And here I thought that I was cuter than your other SOLOMON contacts," came the deadpan response.

"_Oh?" _Nagira asked interestedly from behind them.

Had she still been capable of it, Doujima might have been embarrassed. As it was, she had forgotten how to blush years ago. "Nothing," she replied, and gave Charlie the stink-eye.

The other agent's expression didn't change, but she suspected that he was snickering on the inside. He looked at her for a beat and then turned his attention to Nagira. He swept his eyes over the lawyer from head to foot with a shrewd, calculating look. Nagira didn't seem offended, possibly because he was giving Charlie an eerily similar looking-over. Once again, Doujima was reminded that she was quite possibly inviting her own discomfort by introducing Nagira to her fellow spies.

Charlie was the first to break the impromptu staring contest, turning back through the door even as he spoke to them. "Marco mentioned that Yurika had brought someone else along. Are you a member of the STN-J?"

Doujima gave his back a hard stare as she followed him into the building. Like her, Charlie had been given a chance to peruse the STN-J's files while they had been working on the Orbo case, and he had met all of her remaining coworkers in the week that he had stayed in Japan after the Factory's fall. So Charlie _knew_ that Nagira was not a member of the Japan branch of SOLOMON, he was just digging for information. She couldn't really blame him. Digging for information was what they did.

"No," Nagira said, and smirked around his cigarette. Charlie's back was to them, so he didn't notice, but Doujima rolled her eyes.

"If you have a question, you should just ask," she added.

Charlie turned, so that he was walking backwards. "Ah, but that would be far too straightforward. Besides, would I get an answer if I _just asked_?"

"Probably not," Doujima admitted.

Nagira made a very rude sound in the back of his throat, and shut the door behind them with a little _click_. "I'm not a SOLOMON anything. I'm just with her." And secretly working to protect witches from SOLOMON, but he wisely didn't say that. "How do you two get anything done when you can't even have a damn conversation? It's like watching snakes flirt."

One corner of Doujima's mouth jerked upwards, as she twisted her head to look at him. "Yeah, I wonder about that too, sometimes. Then again, the last time that Charlie worked on a project with me, you and I ended up dodging bullets and almost getting caught under a bunch of collapsing rubble, so maybe our communication skills do need to be worked on."

"Thanks, Yurika. That's reassuring."

"I aim to please."

The room they had entered was large, taking up almost the entire first floor of the house. It was empty, except for a row of filing cabinets against the back wall, and a desk that probably belonged to Charlie shoved into the corner. Even from across the room, she could see that someone had emptied the filing cabinets, taking the drawers out completely and leaving yawning holes in the metal framework that had held them. Next to the desk was a set of stairs, old and curved like the back of an aging woman, but clean, and sturdy looking even though wood at the center of each step was worn down and gray.

"Where's Marco?" Doujima wondered, her smile fading as she surveyed the room. "He was supposed to meet me here."

"In Alfonso's office," Charlie said. "He stumbled in about half an hour ago, and told me to wait downstairs for you. I kind of suspect that he went upstairs to catch a nap."

They found Marco upstairs, sitting in the oversized leather chair that had once belonged to Alfonso, not asleep, but not alert either, and obviously displeased to be there so early in the morning. He started when they entered, then glared at them out of bleary eyes.

"Good morning," Nagira said, far too cheerfully for the older man's liking.

"Maybe for you," he grumbled, as he heaved himself out of the chair with effort. He turned heavy-lidded eyes to Doujima. "Since when do _you_ wake up at this hour? I remember, in Japan, I was lucky if you contacted me before noon."

Doujima shrugged, an elegant rise and fall of the shoulders. "That was in Japan."

"So I should expect this to be the routine, while you're investigating this?"

Her smile showed more than a hint of tooth. "Maybe."

The sound that came out of Marco's lips sounded suspiciously like a snarl. "Fine. I'm going downstairs to _investigate_ the insides of my eyelids. _Ciao_."

"Grump," Doujima muttered, then turned to take her first real look at the office. Like the downstairs, it was just one big room, two of the walls covered floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves. The back wall, which overlooked the canal, was studded with windows, with more filing cabinets set between them. An enormous oak-wood desk dominated the center of the room, kept bare of everything but a blank pad of paper and a pen. While Alfonso had been alive, the place had been kept scrupulously clean, with everything in its proper place, and without a speck of dust in sight. However, she saw now that the office had been pillaged, no doubt in an attempt by SOLOMON to find the many things that the spymaster had kept hidden. The books had been removed from the shelves, neatly, methodically, and left in stacks on the floor. The bookshelves looked lonely and barren, empty of everything except the few knickknacks that Alfonso had kept on the shelf nearest to the desk: a decanter of brandy and a set of glasses, a canister of shoe polish, a shiny silver cigar-cutter and a lighter, as well as a half-empty wooden box filled with fat cigars. Most men would have kept those things tucked away inside their desk, but Alfonso had liked to have them on hand. She suspected that he had used the lighter and shoe polish more often than he had the pen and paper on his desk.

The drawers had been removed from the file cabinets and carried away, like they had been downstairs. The desk drawers had been likewise removed. On the wall near the door had hung the room's only painting, a framed copy of John Sargent's splashy water-color depicting the Bridge of Sighs. It had been carefully removed and propped up against the wall, to reveal the hidden vault behind it. The door to the vault hung open to reveal an empty interior, but Doujima doubted that they had found anything of interest in there. Alfonso never would have kept anything of importance in such an obvious hiding place.

Likewise, she didn't think that they would glean anything of interest from his little-used computer, which had sat, neglected, on the wooden table beside the door. The computer was gone, now. Whoever had combed over the place had taken that with them as well.

"Wow," Doujima breathed, softly.

Charlie nodded curtly. "They came in only hours after I found the body. Really ransacked the place."

"That's nice," Nagira commented, and crouched down to look one of the stacks of books. He ran a finger delicately over the leather-bound spines, his white coat spread out behind him.

"Not nice, but necessary," Charlie said with a shrug, and Doujima made a vague sound of agreement. She crossed the room, weaving cautiously through the maze of books, until she reached the desk. She sat in the chair, sinking back into its arms. It was so large that her feet didn't even touch the ground, and smelled faintly of leather and smoke. She felt a moment's unease when she realized that this was probably where Alfonso had been sitting when he had died, and resisted the urge to spring out of the chair and brush herself off, as if to remove some invisible taint of death.

To keep her attention off of the inherent... well, _grossness_... of sitting in a place where someone had breathed his last, she scooted forward in the chair to look at the room again. "I'm surprised they didn't find the files. He used to keep them here, and it looks like whoever searched the place was pretty thorough." She watched as Nagira stood, and followed the same path that she had taken across the room in order to inspect the shelf that held Alfonso's knick-knacks. He picked up the cigar-cutter, clicking the blade experimentally.

"Maybe he moved them? It's been a while since you were last in Venice." Charlie sighed. "I don't know, Yurika. Whatever the case is, we need to find those files. You just got here, but SOLOMON has been breathing down my neck about it for the last two weeks, and I'm at a loss."

"We'll figure it out," she promised, with more confidence than she felt. Alfonso had been a tricky old man, and even she didn't know all of his secrets.

Nagira had moved on to fiddling with Alfonso's lighter, turning it over between his fingers and flicking it open and shut. Charlie was watching him now as well, in much the same way that an anxious salesperson would watch a potential shoplifter. The next thing that Nagira picked up was the cut-glass decanter. He plucked the stopper out with long fingers and sniffed at the ruby-colored brandy in the decanter, before wrinkling his nose and quickly replacing it on the shelf.

"Can liquor spoil?" he wondered, and ran a finger over the edge of the stopper, where it was still damp from being inside the decanter. He held his finger up to his lips, as if to taste, but Charlie reached out one gangly arm to snatch the stopper.

The spy pushed the stopper back into the decanter, apparently having had enough of watching a strange man paw through his boss's possessions. "I don't know, and that's probably not the best way to find out." Charlie sniffed, even though Doujima doubted that whatever Nagira had smelled was strong enough to linger in the air, then he shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe Alfonso liked some weird, stinky kind of brandy?"

He caught the look that Doujima shot him, and chuckled. "Yeah, I know. We Americans have no appreciation for fine wine. Or so Alfonso always told me."

She sniffed disdainfully. "Go back to your Budweiser, Skippy, and leave the wine alone."

"Yes ma'am," Charlie replied meekly, and she couldn't help but think that _meek _really didn't suit him. Charlie might act harmless but, like her, he was a lot more dangerous than he appeared. The same could probably be said of all of SOLOMON's members, especially its spies.

She couldn't help but notice that he left the room very quickly, once she had given him an opening to do so. Perhaps, like her, he didn't want to linger there. Or perhaps it was just her imagination; Nagira certainly didn't seem bothered by the prospect of poking around a dead man's office. Usually, she wouldn't have been bothered, either, but this wasn't just any dead man.

Doujima waited to be sure that Charlie was gone, before sliding forward in the chair until she was leaning against the edge of the seat instead of sitting in it. She was glad the other two had left, because it would have been awkward to find a way to clear them out of the office. There were some things she knew about Alfonso – and his many hiding places – that she saw no reason to share with others.

Nagira leaned against one of the empty bookshelves, and watched her curiously. He didn't offer to leave, and she didn't ask him to. She might worry about sharing potentially sensitive information with her fellow spies but, in this case, she was strangely unworried about Nagira. It probably should have been the other way around, considering the fact that she and he were _technically_ enemies, and the others were her coworkers. Then again, of the four people in the building, she knew who the trustworthy one was... and it wasn't her, or either of the other spies. If Alfonso's secrets got out, it wouldn't be because Nagira had told anyone.

Not that she planned to give him any sort of valuable information about SOLOMON. He might be trustworthy, but he also wasn't the sort of man who would ignore a weapon when it was offered to him. There could be no mistake; Nagira was dedicated in his fight to save the witches, and if she was foolish enough to inadvertently hand him the keys to the kingdom, he would have no qualms about using them.

Luckily for her, and for SOLOMON, she _wasn't _that foolish.

This conflict of interests was undoubtedly a hitch in their relationship, but it also added an undeniable spice to it. After all, sleeping with the enemy was a long-standing espionage tradition, if she was to believe what she saw in the movies.

Of course, in real life, such an arrangement usually ended with a lot more tragedy, and a lot less romance than it would in a movie.

Doujima dismissed that thought as absolutely too depressing for further consideration. One of the disadvantages – or one of the benefits, depending on how you looked at it – of being a spy was that you became much better at deception. All sorts of deception. Self-deception was not something that she usually allowed herself to indulge in (or so she told herself), and it had been something that Alfonso had always frowned upon, but sometimes she considered it a necessity.

Like when she had a job to do, and couldn't afford to be distracted.

She reached one hand through the hole in the desk where the upper left-hand drawer had been, running her fingers over the smooth wood on the underside of the desktop. If SOLOMON hadn't raided the office, she would have had to open the drawer and crane her elbow to reach, but the fact that the drawer was missing made things simpler.

She continued to run her hand back and forth over the underside of the desk, searching. Just as her arm began to ache from holding it at an angle, she found what she was looking for. A crack in the satiny smoothness of the polished wood, barely a ripple under the sensitive skin of her fingertips, and not visible to the naked eye at all. Doujima followed the crack along, until she came to a place where it was subtly wider, just wide enough for her to worm the tips of her fingers into it. There was a moment's struggle, and then a hollow _click_ when the catch released. It was followed by a soft, sighing sound, as the desk's hidden compartment dropped down slowly, into the space that the drawer would usually occupy.

"Yes," she hissed, triumphantly. Nagira raised a brow, still leaning against the bookshelf, his arms crossed over his chest.

The compartment was small by necessity, about the same size as the box of cigars on the shelf. The front was open-ended, but with the desk overshadowing it, it was too dark for her to see the inside of the compartment. Instead, she reached inside, hunting around with her fingers until she found something.

The first thing that she pulled from the compartment was a slender, gray-bound book. There was nothing on the cover, but a quick flip through the pages showed them to be filled with Alfonso's blocky copperplate printing.

The second item that Doujima found was Alfonso's pocket watch, which made her frown. She couldn't remember him every taking it off. It had always remained attached to his suit jacket by a thin silver chain, and she couldn't even begin to guess why it would be in the secret box in his desk. She had never even seen it up close. She turned it over in her hand, running her fingers over the cool metal of the cover. On one side was etched a picture of Venice's mascot, St. Mark's lion, clutching his book. One the other side, there were four words, carved gracefully into the otherwise unmarred silver. Much to her surprise, they were in English, rather than Spanish, or even Italian.

_The hell within him._

"Cheery thought," she muttered. There was an odd, sinking feeling in her chest, like sorrow or dread.

Nagira had come up behind her, and he squinted over her shoulder in order to make out the delicately chiseled words.

"What do you think?" Doujima asked.

"I know a guy who could fence it for you for a tidy sum."

"Ha ha," she replied, deadpan.

Nagira shrugged. With him behind her, she couldn't really see the gesture, but she could feel the movement at her back. "Don't ask me. _I_ didn't know the guy. What do _you_ suppose it means?"

"I don't know," Doujima murmured, and ran her thumb over the words again. She didn't know, but she could guess. Alfonso had been a craft-user, although she couldn't remember him every using his powers in front of her. It had always bothered him that he possessed the Craft, and not much had bothered Alfonso.

Like many of SOLOMON's agents, he had believed that a witch's powers were inherently evil, even if those powers were being put to use in hunting other witches down. He had seen how those powers could destroy a person from within, eating away at their humanity, until someone who had once hunted the witches _became _a witch. It had taken her a long time to realize just how much he feared that he would loose control to the taint in his blood. How deeply he had hated that taint, and how he had hated himself by extension.

It was a peculiar sort of self-hatred, but by no means rare among those who worked for SOLOMON. In fact, after she had seen how an Inquisition worked while in Japan, Doujima had started to suspect that the organization encouraged this sentiment in its agents.

It was not a sentiment that she, herself, shared. Although she was a Seed, no one seemed to think it likely that she would awaken, and her parents' position within the syndicate had kept her sheltered from some of the nastier aspects of SOLOMON brainwashing – no one felt the need to tell _her _that witches were evil and that anyone with witch blood was contaminated and a potential danger, because they figured that she would be getting that information at home. To a certain extent, she had, and a great many of those teachings had stuck... but not enough to keep her from remaining cynical about some of the views that the Assembly encouraged among the ranks. The fact that a lot of the people working for SOLOMON felt that they needed to redeem themselves guaranteed a level of devotion that bordered on the fanatical, in many cases.

Fanatical. That was a word that described so many of SOLOMON's agents, whether they had witch blood running through their veins or not. Her thoughts wandered to Zaizen, who had himself been free of the taint, but so dedicated to his convictions and the doctrine taught by SOLOMON that he had performed atrocities in the hopes of eliminating the evil of the witches once and for all.

Witches were evil. Their powers could cause great harm, and a disturbing number of them seemed to lack any sort of conscience at all. Doujima had seen all of this for herself while she was in Japan, and no matter what Nagira seemed to believe, there was something too intrinsically dangerous about the witches for them to remain un-policed. If anything, the time she had spent hunting should have reinforced what SOLOMON, her parents, and Alfonso had been teaching her all along.

But if that was true, and witches were evil, where did people like Robin fit in? Even now, knowing what the young girl had been capable of, she couldn't believe that there was anything evil in Robin. Hell, even after being declared a witch by SOLOMON, the girl had retained more in the way of personal virtues than Doujima could delude herself into thinking that _she_ had ever possessed. Even though she had been sent to Japan as a spy, Robin had _never_ betrayed those who had trusted her. Doujima had done so repeatedly, and she had done it with a smile on her face.

What did that say about SOLOMON's teachings? That the witch whom they had hunted turned out to be a much better person than the human who was still in SOLOMON's good books?

Robin and the Orbo had changed everything. Doujima was now questioning things that she didn't really want to question. Things that were _dangerous_ for her to question. It would be for the best if she were to shove this to the back of her mind, and ignore it now as she had ignored it on the night of the Factory's collapse, and before. But the truth was, she was tired of ignoring it. She was so very tired of turning deaf ears to that nagging little voice that she thought might, just might, be her conscience.

She stared down at the watch in her hand for a moment longer, and then shook her head violently. Who was she kidding? Conscience was all well and good, but it wasn't for her. In the end, she knew where her allegiance would lie. She had been listening to SOLOMON longer than she had been listening to her _conscience_, and she had been taking orders much longer than she had been questioning things.

In the end, Doujima was not the sort of woman who would challenge the way that her world was ordered just because some of the pieces no longer fit. She was simply not that brave, which reaffirmed her belief that, of the two of them, Robin was the better person.

She could no longer ignore the fact that her opinions were starting to conflict with those expressed by SOLOMON, but she also couldn't remedy that conflict. '_For rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft, and stubbornness is as iniquity and idolatry.'_ Words that SOLOMON lived by, and words that anyone who thought of betraying the syndicate would do well to remember.

"Yurika?"

Doujima jerked in the chair when Nagira's voice broke through her thoughts, and nearly sent the gray-covered book in her lap sliding to the ground. She had been silent for too long, long enough to worry the lawyer into speaking. "What's up?" he continued. "You look like your puppy just died, or something."

_No, just my entire belief system_, she wanted to say.

"I'm fine," she said instead, and smiled around the lie.

Lying was almost comforting, even if lying to Nagira was not. _Here_ was something that she was good at. She might not be brave enough to rock the boat, so to speak, but she was a damn good spy. Whatever doubts she might have about SOLOMON, one thing that she didn't doubt was that Alfonso still had possession of that tiny sliver of loyalty that she was capable of. It was almost enough to kill her smile; even from beyond the grave, her mentor could manipulate her.

Thoughts chased each other wildly through Doujima's head. Alfonso, the hold he had on her, and his mysterious death. Nagira, his trustworthiness, and the rather disturbing hold that _he_ seemed to have gained over her, almost without her noticing.

SOLOMON.

"_Who do you trust?"_

Oh, if only she knew.

* * *

Declaimer: I don't own _Witch Hunter Robin_. Or anything else.

Notes: First off, a big warm thanks to PuckRG, who was good enough to beta read this chapter. She was very nice and patient, even though I told her that I'd send her the next chapter 'in a few days' for at _least _a month. _Risotti di mare_ is a kind of grain dish with seafood, and _seppie alla veneziana_ is cuttlefish served in its own ink. A _cornetto _is a type of pastry. Assuming that I get the next chapter done in a more timely manner: _The Average Man_, detailing the amazing adventures of Nagira and Marco.


	7. The Average Man

' "_The average man don't like trouble and danger." '_

- Mark Twain, 'The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.'

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Chapter Seven: The Average Man

"She's still at it?"

Nagira looked up from where he was lounging, on a couch situated on the landing outside of the office which had once belonged to the director of SOLOMON's intelligence agency. Marco was glowering at the door which led into that office, which was currently shut in an unmistakable attempt by the woman inside to ignore the outside world. Really, it was a little bit unnerving. He had never seen this level of dedication from Doujima, not even when they had been working to rescue Karasuma and bring down the Factory. "Yes."

His succinct answer only made Marco scowl harder. "I don't know what good she thinks it's going to do. Codes are nigh impossible to break unless you have the code's key and, whatever else she might be, she's no cryptographer. We don't even know if there's anything useful in that little book of hers, and she's been at it for, what, three days now?" He rubbed a hand over his thinning salt-and-pepper hair, and turned narrowed eyes towards Nagira. "Your Yurika is a very stubborn woman."

Well, there was really no denying that, Nagira thought ruefully. "She's not really mine. I think it's safe to say that the only person that she belongs to -- or listens to -- is herself."

The scowl disappeared as Marco's lips twisted upwards, forming a cynical sort of smile. "You're probably right. An admirable quality, but not exactly a safe one to possess, not when one is working for SOLOMON." There was an unmistakably edge to his voice, so bitter that only a deaf man or an idiot would be able to miss it. Nagira would have liked to pursue it, but Marco hurried on, as though he had realized that he had shared more than he intended to. "Then again, Yurika has always thumbed her nose at SOLOMON, and gotten away with it. She has people who can pull the strings for her and make SOLOMON dance to her tune."

That alone was enough to catch Nagira's interest. "Yeah, you've both mentioned that."

Marco made a very rude sound, as though he was sneezing up a toad. "A mention is all you're going to get, my friend. She wouldn't thank me for giving you more than that. Suffice it to say, Mr. Doujima is high up in the organization, and will go higher before he's through. I've only met him once in passing, but the man is so slick that water won't stick to him. You spend five minutes talking to him, and you're convinced that up is really down and that the sky is not blue, but a charming shade of puce." Nagira didn't bother to point out that this was considerably more than a 'mention.' In the past few days, Marco had become more relaxed, seeming to forget that Nagira was not a member of the syndicate. He was much more forthcoming than closed-mouthed Charlie, or even Doujima, who had become even more secretive since returning to Venice. Of course, that was, in part, because she had spent the better part of their time in Italy holed up in the office of her dead mentor, pouring over the cryptic nonsense which filled the pages of the book that she had found in his desk.

As though he had sensed the thought, Marco looked once again at the door of the office, then back to Nagira. "You look like a man with a lot of time on his hands," the Sicilian said, with a sort of forced cheer. "I'm going to wander the streets of Venice for a while, talk to a few people, maybe see if I can drum up some sort of useful information. Would you like to come?"

It seemed like a very roundabout way of saying that he was going to ask his contacts about Alfonso's death, but Nagira had noticed that none of the members of SOLOMON Intelligence, not even Marco, would say things directly when they could veil their words in at least three layers of euphemisms and hedging. All the same, it wasn't an offer that he was about to pass up. The whole time he had been in Venice, Nagira had been hoping for a way to ask the same questions he would at home, where he had his own little network of people who were willing to reveal things they shouldn't, for a fair price. This seemed like the opportunity he had been waiting for. "Sure. Why not?"

"Oh, I can think of plenty of answers for that," Marco replied, his face relaxing into its usual scowl. "But Yurika trusts you, and seems to have carte blanche from the Assembly, so I suppose it will be fine." Nagira perked up immediately at the mention of SOLOMON's shadowy ruling body, but once again forced himself not to press. Sticking his nose into things that didn't strictly concern him would be the fastest way to make Marco suspicious and lose what little ground he had gained with the spy.

He followed Marco down the stairs, but they did not walk out onto the street. Instead, Marco led the way out onto the little square dock behind the house. In the past few days, the weather had turned dark, combining low, heavy clouds with July heat to form a sort of chill mugginess. It hadn't rained yet, that would have been a relief. Instead, the air was stagnant, cold and thick, in the lungs and against the skin. The canal before them was still and smooth as glass.

"_Che brutto tempo_," Marco muttered, and he cast such a dark look at the sky that Nagira almost expected the clouds to part, simply to appease the man. They didn't, and Marco muttered something much less mild than a comment on the weather before sidling to the edge of the dock and lowering himself carefully into the powerboat tethered there. Nagira hopped in, and was favored with a glare from his companion as the boat rocked uneasily under the sudden weight. Unable to help himself, he smirked and bounced violently on his seat, making little waves on the previously still surface of the water. Marco gripped the edge of the boat with one hand and crossed himself with the other, his darkly tanned skin going a little pale.

Taking pity on the man, Nagira untethered the boat and started the engine. As he had told Doujima, traveling by water did not bother him the way that flying did, and he had quickly adjusted to the necessity of using a boat in Venice, where there were easily as many waterways as roadways. Once they had pulled away from the dock and Nagira had stopped jostling the boat, Marco's color returned to normal and he took charge of navigating them through the tangle of canals and out into the open lagoon.

"Easier this way," Marco explained over the sound of the engine. "I'm not as familiar with _Venizia_ as our lady-spy is, and I don't wish to become lost. Better to go around the city than through it." He pulled his coat a little closer to him. "_Cristo_, I am so ready to go home."

"You don't enjoy Venice?" Nagira asked, but it wasn't really a question, because nothing that Marco had said since the two had met indicated that he liked anything about the city. The canals stank, the weather was awful, and the food was atrocious. Doujima said many of the same things, but she said them with affection. Marco would say them in a voice thick with disgust, before spitting into the nearest canal, as if to cleanse his mouth of the taste of Venice.

There was a minute pause, before Marco shrugged his sloped shoulders. His face was turned away from Nagira, towards the green-gray expanse of the lagoon. "I miss my family," he said simply. "My eldest daughter, she is going to give me my first grandchild in a few weeks. I had wanted to return home in time for the baptism, but this..." He waved a hand, but did not seem to be indicating either the city or the lagoon. "...this, SOLOMON, must take priority. I worry, sometimes, that I won't return at all, because of the dangers of this job. I am getting too old to ward off all of them, and much, much too old to get any thrill out of doing so." He smiled brightly, but the expression was so foreign to Marco's face that it instantly seemed false to Nagira. "There's no use complaining, though. That is the way things are."

"'The way things are' is stupid," Nagira said bluntly. He knew immediately that he shouldn't have. He had been so careful up until now, making sure that nothing he said or did gave away his true feelings about SOLOMON. He was smart enough to know that the wrong word could get not only himself but Yurika into trouble. He didn't want to risk the network that he had so carefully set up to help the witches, and he didn't want to risk her. Even if she was the one putting herself at risk in the first place, working for the witch-hunters and dating a witch sympathizer, he didn't want to risk her.

Marco looked surprised for a moment. When he smiled again, it was wan and held very little in the way of humor, but much more sincerity. "That may be true, my friend." He shrugged once again, and there was a world of defeat and hopelessness in that one little gesture. "But what are we to do about it?" He didn't seem to expect an answer, and Nagira didn't offer one but, somewhere in the depths of his mind, a vague sort of idea formed. Not yet a plan, so he carefully turned away from it, content to let it ferment in the back of his brain. It was just as well that he did, because only a few short minutes had passed before Marco guided the boat up to another weathered wooden dock and said, "We're here."

A glance around told Nagira that they were nowhere within the limited area of Venice that he was familiar with. A glance behind them showed only an expanse of murky blue-gray lagoon water. "Where is here?"

"Murano," grunted Marco, who was by no means as adept a tour guide as Doujima. "It's an island," he added helpfully. He looked around quickly, his dark eyes skimming carelessly over the people on the dock, until they landed on a scruffy boy in an oversized t-shirt and jeans who was cleaning something that didn't bear thinking about out of a tethered gondola. He looked up, as though he felt Marco's glare on the back of his neck.

A broad grin flashed across the boy's face, gamine and full of mischief. _"Salve, Marco."_

Marco bobbed his head in a short nod. _"Dov'e__ sono Claudio?"_

"_Chi?"_ the boy asked, with such feigned innocence that it crossed even language barriers. The sound of Marco's teeth grinding together was audible even from three feet away.

"Clau-di-o?" Marco repeated, with such exaggerated care that the three-syllable name was drawn out to a full six.

This time, the boy waved off the question, and pretended an wide yawn. _"Non lo so.E __troppo presto. Ho sonno. Lasciami in pace."_

Marco made a noise like a tea kettle about to boil over. When the boy's grin only widened, the older man gave a shrug that seemed to signify defeat. He riffled through his pockets for a moment, then leaned daringly over the patch of empty water between the two boats, and turned an even deeper shade of green in the process, as the boat that he and Nagira were sharing tipped precariously to one side. He caught the boy's hand, and pressed something into it ཤྭ most likely a bribe. The boy confirmed this by shoving his hand and its contents into his pocket, and nodding his head in a manner which was clearly a mockery of Marco's earlier greeting.

Then he pointed to one of the shops along the waterfront, and went back to cleaning out the gondola.

"Venice," Marco muttered, and he seemed to feel that was an adequate summary of his exchange with the boy. In Nagira's experience, however, Marco felt that the fact that they were in Venice was an adequate explanation for anything bad that happened to him. So instead of responding, Nagira climbed out of the boat and up onto the dock, and started towards the shop that the boy had indicated. All of the shops here seemed to deal in much the same merchandise; one shop had a cut-glass chandelier hanging on display in the front window; another had blown-glass vases and bowls. The store that they had been directed to had a life-sized clear glass swan at the center of its window, surrounded by smaller glass animals in various colors... everything from cats to elephants, and one tiny piece which looked distinctly like a small blue glass ferret.

Nagira had his hand on the door of the shop when Marco caught up with him, huffing a little with the effort of forcing limbs that were neither young nor spry into a trot. He had his habitual scowl in place, and he yanked the door open and stepped inside without a word.

The windows had been left open inside the shop, which let in the thin, clouded light and displayed the merchandise to its best advantage, but also kept the air as humid and unpleasant as it had been outside. The interior was crowded with shelves full of glassware, but curiously devoid of people. There was a lean, dark young man toying with a glass paperweight near the front of the store, and a bored looking salesman behind the counter, but otherwise the shop was empty.

The man behind the counter straightened when Nagira and Marco entered the shop. Recognition lit his face as he looked at Marco, and he opened his mouth and said one simple word: "No."

"No," Marco repeated.

Broad hands swept through shockingly white-blond hair in what was undoubtedly a nervous motion, and the man shook his head rapidly. "No. Not today, Bianchi. I don't have anything to sell to you."

"You always have something to sell, Claudio," Marco said tiredly. "That is why I come to you."

The blond man cast a conspiratorial glance around the shop, but found it empty; the young man who had been browsing the shelves had taken one look at Nagira and Marco, and slipped out almost immediately after they had entered. "If you want to buy something, you can pick out a nice vase, or a paperweight. I'll even give you a discount. _Merda_, do you know how much trouble I could get into for talking to you SOLOMON workers right now?" He drew two fingers across his throat in an unmistakable gesture.

The grin on Nagira's face drew Marco's formidable glare away from the shopkeeper and onto him. "Do you find this funny, signore?"

"Not funny, but yeah, pretty damn entertaining." When Marco continued to glare, Nagira shrugged. "It seems kind of familiar."

That seemed to satisfy Marco, because he grunted and returned his attention to the reluctant Claudio. Claudio, however, seemed more concerned with Nagira. "Who," he asked, his eyes narrowed in suspicion, "is this?"

"Nobody," both men answered in tandem, and exchanged a look. "Nobody that you need to concern yourself with," Marco continued. "All you need to concern yourself with is telling me whatever you've heard about The Spaniard's death. You know that I'll pay you well for the information; it can't be the money that's bothering you."

"It's not the money that's bothering me," Claudio agreed, "it's the fact that I value my life. Leave it alone, Marco. Too many people wanted that old bastard dead. Does it really matter who got to him in the end?"

"Yes."

Unable to argue with such an unshakable affirmative, Claudio could only sigh. "I wasn't really lying when I told you that I had nothing to sell," he said finally. "The witches in Venice have been very quiet recently. No major incidents, no information coming to me either from the source or through gossip. All I can tell you is that they're sitting on some kind of secret over there. They have been ever since your boss got the ax. I tried to find out more about it, and that's when I got warned off. I know better that to mess with the self-proclaimed Witch Queen of Venice and her people when they've told me to mind my own business. I'm a Seed, but they know that I'll sell what I know, and they didn't want me to know anything about _this_." He gave Marco a sharp-eyed look. "You really should follow my example, Bianchi, and keep your nose out of it."

Marco's glare had gone soft and thoughtful, and he didn't seem inclined to push for more information, but something had caught Nagira's attention. "Witch Queen of Venice?"

A shrug and a roll of the eyes seemed to summarize Claudio's feeling on the matter. "That's a quaint presumption, isn't it? Her name is Fiametta Ganza. She's powerful, and she polices her own so that The Spaniard never had to worry about it, so no one complains that she has a pretty ego to match her pretty face." He laughed a little harshly. "Some days it seemed that he ran half the city, and she ran the other half."

"You're saying that she wasn't happy just running half of the city?" Nagira demanded.

"Oh, no, it's not for me to say," Claudio said, waving his hand in a disclaimer. He dropped the hand to finger the glass pendant around his neck, which was engraved with some kind of witch symbol. It looked something like a stick-figure with three legs and without either a head or arms. Amon might have known what it was, but Nagira didn't know much about the technical workings of the Craft. From the way that the man was pawing at it, Nagira guessed that it was intended to protect the wearer in some way. "It's not like she had any love for the old bastard. She's a _witch_, he was _SOLOMON_, you do the math."

This assertion made Nagira a little uncomfortable, because again and again he found himself running up against that same wall. Witches and witch sympathizers simply did not mix well with SOLOMON, and that was more than enough of a difference to justify murder. If that was the case, it sure as hell didn't bode well for a budding romance, just as it had never boded particularly well for his relationship with his brother. _'Doesn't that make him your enemy?'_ Robin had asked. He hadn't had a real answer then, and he still didn't now.

A neat stack of euros discreetly exchanged hands, and Marco turned to leave, Nagira trailing a pace behind him. Claudio's worried gaze followed them until the shop door had swung closed, and left them once again standing on the street near the docks. Nagira fished out a cigarette, and moved to light it.

There was no warning. In the space between one moment and the next, the time that it took Nagira to light his cigarette and take the first drag of thick sweet smoke, a solid wall of water rose from the lagoon. It towered a good twenty-five feet above the street, casting a dark shadow over the storefronts and blocking out the sky completely. Then it came crashing down.

For a moment, there was no air to breathe, only water, and Nagira found himself attempting to breathe that instead. Then his brain caught up with his panicked body, and he closed his mouth. The unnatural current swept him out towards the lagoon, and he would have ended up in deeper water had his back not smacked suddenly and painfully into one of the dock's wooden support beams.

It was over as quickly as it had started, and Nagira was left sputtering in the shallows near the dock, up to his chest in water and soaking wet. He was relieved to find Marco similarly unharmed, save that the water which reached Nagira's chest was around the Sicilian's neck, and ever tiny wave left him to spit out even more of the murky lagoon water.

Nagira recovered and rose first, moving to help Marco back onto the shore.

"What," Marco gasped, once he finally had enough breath to gasp with, "was that?"

"Offhand, I'd say that was the warning that your pal Claudio told us about." The cigarette that Nagira had lit had been washed away, and predictably, both the half-empty pack of cigarettes in his pocket and his lighter were ruined. He sighed. "Someone doesn't like us asking about your boss's death."

This time, when Marco spat, Nagira had the distinct impression that he was doing it to express his feelings on the matter, and not to get the water out of his mouth. _"Madre del Dio,"_ he growled. "This job really is going to get me killed."

Just like that, as though the frigid water had cleared his head, the idea that had formed in Nagira's mind earlier that morning crystallized, and became the rough outline of a plan. Marco didn't want to work for SOLOMON anymore, that much was clear. It was equally clear that SOLOMON wasn't about to let Marco go, at least not willingly... but hadn't Nagira spent the last few years getting people away from the syndicate?

He pounded Marco's back with a companionable hand, and stepped further away from the shore. "C'mon, buddy, let's go find somewhere to dry off. You and I need to have a little talk."

--------------------

Disclaimer: In spite of the fact that I've gone eight months without updating this story, I _still_ don't own _Witch Hunter Robin_. Darn.

Notes: auntie-mom is a wonderful beta-reader, who is much more of a stickler for commas than I am. She can be thanked for making this chapter remotely readable. Next chapter: _Troubles_, in which Doujima doesn't make a discovery and our two lovebirds aren't. And now, on to my further butchering on the Italian language:

_Che brutto tempo_ - What awful weather

_Salve_ - Hello

_Dov'e __sono Claudio_ - Where is Claudio?

_Chi?_ - Who?

_Non lo so_ - I don't know

_E __troppo presto_ - It's too early

_Ho sonno_ - I'm tired

_Lasciami in pace_ - Leave me alone

_Merda_ - Shit


	8. Troubles

'"_Desire changes nothing," she said a little breathlessly.  
_"_Passion erases none of the troubles that lie between you  
__and me." '_

- Sharon Shinn, 'Archangel.'

---------------------

Chapter Eight: Troubles

Doujima had spent the past three days adding to the mess in the previously immaculate office. Balled up pieces of paper filled the places on the floor which were not already covered by the piles of books that SOLOMON had left behind. Several of those piles had been knocked over, and she hadn't bothered to stack the books again after they had toppled to the ground. Take-out containers from a variety of Venetian restaurants littered the top of Alfonso's desk. Doujima couldn't quite bring herself to work at the desk, or to sit in her dead mentor's chair, so instead she dragged Charlie's chair upstairs and set up at the little table that had once held Alfonso's computer.

Three days, and she was still no closer to breaking the code than she had been when she'd first removed the book from the hidden compartment within the desk. It was clear that it was a lost cause, and she would have given up, if she hadn't been so certain that the book contained at least some of the answers that she was looking for. That certainty wasn't entirely unwarranted. Doujima had known Alfonso as well as anyone had known SOLOMON's elusive spymaster, and there was something very deliberate about the placement of the book and the watch. As if he had intended for someone to find them. As if he hand intended for _her_ to find them, since the compartment in the desk had been a secret between them, one that he had revealed to her in the early days of her training.

It seemed like something that Alfonso might have done, if he had believed himself to be in danger.

Of course, Alfonso had known Doujima as well as she knew him. The thought made her frown, and lean back in her chair, the book with its pages of incomprehensible gibberish still open on the table in front of her. He would also have known what she was, and was not, capable of. After all, he had taught her all that she knew. He would have known that she was not a cryptographer, a skill which took years to perfect and was never exactly a precise art. Alfonso had taught her about ciphers and the most simple of codes, but a complex code, especially one that had been written by her mentor, was entirely beyond her capabilities. Alfonso would have _known_ that. He wouldn't have expected her to break the code, so he had to have thought that she would be able to locate the code's key.

Doujima pursed her lips thoughtfully, and looked at the desk where she had found the book. The little compartment concealed within one of the desk drawers was now empty; she had checked it too carefully to have missed something. However, the book hadn't been the only thing in the desk, had it? There had also been the watch. If the book was the code, then perhaps the watch-- the old fashioned pocket watch which she could not recall Alfonso ever removing from his person-- was the key.

She reached a hand into the pocket of her slacks, and pulled out the watch, which hung heavily from its thin chain. She let it drop into the palm of her hand, cold against her skin, and ran her thumb over the metal of the watch's cover. It had the soft glow of well-worn silver, every minute scratch on the surface catching and holding the light. One side was engraved with an image of Venice's proud lion, but on the other side was written the words that she had noted earlier: _The hell within him._

It was a place to start, at least, and it wasn't like she had anything else to go on. Doujima glanced around the office quickly, and grimaced as she found an immediate impediment in her research. The computers were still missing, taken by SOLOMON, so unless she wanted to go through the hundreds of books that Alfonso had kept in his office in the vain hope of finding something useful, she had to find an alternative means of accessing a computer. Luckily, her mind supplied her with a solution almost as soon as the problem had occurred to her. She climbed to her feet, teetering for a moment on two-inch heels after hours spent sitting.

Doujima made her way down the stairs and outside slowly, turning off lights and locking doors as she went. The building was empty, and she vaguely recalled having heard Nagira leave with Marco early that morning, although she couldn't have said what it was that they were going to do. Something time consuming, since it was by now well into the afternoon, the thick clouds which covered the sky taking on a pink tinge as the sun slid down past the city's skyline and into the lagoon.

She walked, because she didn't have far to go. In less than five minutes, she found herself inside the airy white-and-gray lobby of the San Zulian hotel. She didn't stop at the front desk, simply breezed through and found the room that she was looking for on her own.

Charlie looked more resigned than surprised to find her standing on the other side of his door.

When she smiled at him and said, "I need to use your computer," he simply stepped aside to allow her entrance.

In spite of the fact that he had taken up a more-or-less permanent residence at the hotel while working for Alfonso, Charlie's room maintained a sort of military neatness. The bed was neatly made, and there was no clothing lying on the floor or flung over the furniture. After only four days, the room that Doujima shared with Nagira was considerably worse, even with a maid coming in every morning to tidy up.

Charlie's laptop, slim, black and easily recognizable as standard-issue SOLOMON equipment, was sitting on the bed. Doujima settled down beside it, and flipped it open, tapping her fingers impatiently against the bed's coverlet as she waited for the laptop's screen to light up.

"What are you doing?" Charlie asked bemusedly as he closed the door behind her.

The look which Doujima gave him was one which she reserved for unusually slow children and Sakaki. "I'm using your computer."

She received a rather droll look in return, although she thought that she caught the smallest hint of a smile at the corners of Charlie's mouth. "So I can see. _Why_ are you using my computer?"

"Because there are none in the office."

When confronted by a spy who was being stubbornly secretive, there were only two possible courses of action. Torture, or surrender. Since Charlie would have had trouble justifying the first to SOLOMON Headquarters, he simply sighed and retreated to a chair in the corner.

Doujima smiled her victory, and returned her attention to the computer screen, her fingers skimming lightly over the sleek black keys. She could still feel the other spy's eyes on her, though, heavy against her face. "I've always meant to ask," she said, without lifting her eyes from the laptop, "is Charlie your real name?"

He made a rude sound, but she saw him grin out of the corner of her eye. "Charles Dresden the Fourth. Alfonso thought it was funny that my code name and my real name matched up. You know what his sense of humor was like."

"I know," Doujima replied, with a grim smile. "How did you get involved in SOLOMON?"

So abruptly silent was he that she thought he wouldn't respond. Then he shrugged, a barely visible ripple of movement. "I was pushing papers for one of the American branches, when the syndicate sent someone to investigate a report about a Craft-user in our office. Just a formality, to see if the report was true so that they could order the hunt, you know?"

She did know, so she nodded.

"The woman that they sent thought I was sharp, so she recommended me to Alfonso, and I got transferred to Intelligence not a week later. Not much to tell, really."

For the first time since he had started, Doujima turned her head to look at him. "So you decided to take on a lifetime position, just like that?" she wondered. An administrative worker could leave SOLOMON at any time; a spy or a Hunter could not. The Hunters were made up almost exclusively of Craft-users and Seeds, too dangerous to be set free after they had joined the organization. The ranks of SOLOMON Intelligence held their fair share of those with witch blood running through their veins, but they were dangerous for another reason. There was always the chance that an Intelligence agent had in their possession information which could harm SOLOMON if it was allowed to fall into the wrong hands.

"It seemed worth it at the time," Charlie said, with another shrug, his lean-muscled shoulders rising and falling beneath his thin black t-shirt. "It still does." He looked at her, his expression careful and shrewd. It was no wonder that someone had thought him sharp enough to become one of SOLOMON's elite spies, and it was no wonder that Alfonso had been grooming him as a replacement. "You chose this life, too. Alfonso once told me that he recruited you when you were thirteen. Your parents are members of SOLOMON, but that doesn't mean that you had to join up.."

"Yes, I did," she said absently, as she returned her attention to the laptop. "I'm a Seed."

From the answering silence, this was not something that Alfonso had shared. Doujima echoed his earlier shrugs with one of her own. "Besides, it was expected of me. Alfonso simply offered me an alternative to taking whatever desk job my parents would have handed me, otherwise." She felt a fine web of ire spreading through her stomach, a response invoked by her own description of her parents. She choked it off viciously, with the same stranglehold that all spies employed for useless and potentially dangerous emotions.

That seemed to put an end to the afternoon's questions, at least, which left Doujima free to concentrate on her research. It didn't take a great deal of effort or time. She simply typed the quote into an internet search engine, and she had page after page of results, so many that she wondered that she hadn't recognized it herself.

_'The Hell within him; for within him Hell  
__He brings, and round about him, nor from Hell  
__One step, no more than from himself, can fly  
__By change of place: Now conscience wakes despair,  
__That slumbered; wakes the bitter memory  
__Of what he was, what is, and what must be.'_

Something cold and hard caught and stuck in her throat. _God, Alfonso. '...the bitter memory of what he was.'_ How could she have missed this facet of him, in all the years that she had known him? This sharp, bitter self-hatred which allowed him to identify with a description of Hell, not as a place, but as a state of being, as something held close inside, much like his Craft. What kind of man could feel that way about something that he carried within him, and still smile?

Doujima smiled, as her mind supplied a ready answer. _A spy. A master spy._ Oh, she could recoil in horror at the way that Alfonso hard regarded his Craft, but she knew now what had caused it, just as she had known when she had first found the watch with its sly, simple engraving. SOLOMON cultivated that revulsion of the Craft in its members, nurtured it so that it could grow.

_They have good cause,_ cried the voice of long-ingrained training within her. But Doujima looked at the computer screen, and wondered.

"I don't think I can do this anymore," she muttered.

Charlie's expression was sympathetic. "It's starting to get to you, isn't it? I can't blame you. When Alfonso hid something, it stayed hidden." It took Doujima a moment to make the connection between what he was saying and what she was thinking. It didn't really surprise her, and it relieved her a little, to know that he had come to the logical conclusion and not the correct one.

She wondered if Nagira would have known what she was talking about.

Really, though, Doujima should have thanked Charlie. He had grounded her, reminded her of why she was doing this. Not for SOLOMON, the shadow-organization which had raised her and which was becoming more suspect to her by the day, but for _Alfons_o.

Find the files for SOLOMON. Find the murderer for Alfonso. _What other secrets were you hiding, old man?_

Too many to count, undoubtedly.

She scanned the computer's screen, until she found a source for the quote. John Milton, 'Paradise Lost.' She exited the web browser, gently shut the laptop, and stood. "Thanks, Charlie. I have what I needed. I'm going back to the office, now."

Charlie was looking at her dubiously, his blue eyes dark with concern. "You look a little pale. Are you sure you're alright?" He paused, and the look in his eyes turned contemplative. "I could walk back with you, if you want."

He relaxed when she rolled her eyes, as if he found this subtle bit of sass reassuring. "I'm much to old for you to babysit me, and much too taken for you to flirt with me." Doujima had been joking, but from the way that his ears reddened, she wondered if that wasn't actually the case. "Don't worry about me," she finished, "I can take care of myself. I'll be fine." She tossed him a smile, and breezed out the door as suddenly as she had entered.

Night had fallen while she had been inside, and Doujima paused for a moment in front of the hotel, adjusting to the seemingly sudden change between day and night. Nighttime lent the city a different sort of beauty, softening the lines of the deteriorating old buildings until cracks and flaws were no longer visible, and they seemed to once again hold all the charm and glory of their former youth. She couldn't enjoy it tonight, though, and spent the brief walk back to the office in a sort of muddled haze.

The haze dissipated as soon as she stepped through the office's street-side door, and she half ran up the stairs to the second floor. She flipped on the light switch without a second thought, flooding the room with garish yellow light from the overhead lamp. She slowed as she approached the books on the floor, a grimace twisting her lips. Alfonso _had_ kept them organized on the shelves, although his organization had depended more on country of origin and genre than something that made sense, like author name. Now, even that was gone, swept away when SOLOMON had removed the books in order to look for other hidden secrets on the shelves.

With a put-upon sigh, not unlike the one which she had used at the STN-J whenever someone asked her to do something, Doujima sat down on the floor, her legs sprawled out before her, and began to sort through the books. Book, after book, after book, until the titles seemed to blur before her eyes. She almost didn't realize that she had come to the right book until she was putting it aside.

It was a normal book. Bound in hard brown leather, the pages gilt-edged, but not hollow as Doujima had half hoped. It had not been an entirely irrational hope, if she took into account Alfonso's love of the theatrical. If his desk had a secret compartment, and his wall held a vault hidden behind a painting, why couldn't the book have a hiding spot cut into the pages? Similarly, the pages themselves revealed to her nothing except the words of a long-dead poet; even the page which held the quote from the watch was normal, no hints written into the margins or between the words.

Frustrated, she put the book down.

"You look like you've had a bitch of a day."

Doujima started, and tilted her head back to look at Nagira. He was leaning against the doorframe, his coat hung over one arm. His light gray suit was crumpled, and covered in a light patina of gritty filth, sand or salt if she had to guess. He had lost his tie sometime during the day, and his dark hair was standing on end, as if he had run his fingers through it repeatedly. "Nothing compared to the day you've had, from the look of it." She conjured up a smile from she didn't know where. "Did you have fun playing with Marco?"

He snorted with amusement, but she caught something else in his gaze. A flinching, and a wariness, as if he was bracing himself for something. It put her on edge immediately. "Oh, yeah. Loads of fun. Look, Yurika..."

"Where _is_ Marco?" Doujima cut in. She smiled again, but she felt an answering wariness to it. "Tell me that you didn't get him killed."

"I didn't get him killed."

"Good, because I need him, and life insurance these days is---."

"I got him out."

It took a moment for Nagira's words to penetrate and, even then, Doujima couldn't make sense of them. "What are you talking about?"

"He's gone," Nagira clarified, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. He slid back his sleeve to look at his watch, frowned, tapped it once as if that would make it work, then shrugged. "I put him on a plane to Sicily this morning. He and his family are probably out of the country by now, on their way to Japan. I know people there who'll make sure that Marco is sent somewhere safe. Somewhere _away_." She couldn't read his expression; his eyes were curiously hooded, and the sensitive curve of his mouth lacked even the slightest hint of his usual smile. "He didn't want to be here anymore, Yurika. He didn't want to be working for SOLOMON."

Doujima felt like the breath had been knocked out of her, so she was almost surprised when she heard how hard her own voice sounded. "I see. So you thought that you'd play the big hero and rescue him?" She rose to her feet slowly, and rested a hand on her hip. "Of course, stabbing your girlfriend in the back is also so very heroic. I guess you were too busy trying to get one up on SOLOMON to worry about that."

She was morbidly gratified to see an answering spark of temper in his eyes.

"You think that's what this is about? Scoring a point against SOLOMON? That's _crap_, and you know it." Nagira took a step further into the room, tossing his coat over the back of the chair that she had been sitting in earlier. "I did this because _Marco wanted out_."

He didn't raise his voice, and now that she thought about it, Doujima couldn't remember him ever doing so... except once, yelling at Amon in the rain. She couldn't help but remember how she had ended that fight, and feeling a little bit wistful, since a revolver butt to the head was not an option now. "He's unhappy, and he's getting old," Nagira continued. "He just wants to retire and spoil his grandkids, and he doesn't want to die before he gets the chance. What the hell is wrong with that?" His eyes blazed, taking on a palpable heat that was entirely opposite from his brother's chill temper, but no less intimidating. "Aside from the fact that it means his leaving your precious organization."

"It's not---," she started to say, and stopped. The same response that she had given him while they had been staking out the Factory: _'It's not _my_ organization, okay?'_ Except, now it _was_ her organization that they were arguing about. "It's not like Marco didn't know what he was getting into. He's a _grown man_, and he's perfectly capable of sticking to his decisions once he's made them." She thought about the earlier conversation with Charlie. "We all know, when we sign up for this, that it's a lifetime contract. We all know the risks involved."

"'A lifetime contract?'" Nagira repeated. "That's very compassionate of you. I think that someone's life is a little more important than a bunch of files, and a dead guy." He turned his head to the side, abruptly, as if he couldn't stand to look at her. "I can't believe you. I can't believe that you'd ignore a friend's suffering like that, just to please your damn syndicate."

Doujima pressed her lips together tightly. "You think it's that simple?"

Now he looked at her. "I really do."

She inhaled sharply, and wasn't sure if it was in response to his words, or because she was finding it hard to breath past the sudden tightness in her chest. She couldn't summon the steel back into her voice, and it came out sounding soft and whispery. "Then what the hell have we been doing, Syunji?"

The anger bled from his face, and left him looking as tired and drawn as she felt. "Damned if I know."

It was a feeble denial, because they both knew the answer to her question. Laugh and tease and make love, carefully avoid talking about SOLOMON, carefully ignore the insurmountable differences between them, and pretend, or perhaps simply hope, that nothing would happen that would force them to confront the undeniable truth that things could not work out between them.

This time, it was Doujima who turned away, knocking over another pile of books with her leg and not really caring. She turned her back to him, and tried desperately to regain her equilibrium, to slip back behind a spy's safe mask of lies and half-truths. She took deep breaths, counting them silently._ One, two, three. _Push the pain to the back of her mind, ignore it the same way that a Hunter would ignore physical injury. _Four, five, six_. Force herself to focus, force herself to remember what was really important: the mission. _Seven, eight, nine_. Recall the fact that she was a SOLOMON spy, not some dewy-eyed, brokenhearted girl. _Ten_. Turn around and face him, whether she thought that she was ready to do so or not.

"I trusted you," she said, and if her voice wasn't quite normal, it had at least lost the quiet, shattered quality that it had held before.

"Yeah," Nagira said. "I know." He let out a long breath, not quite a sigh, as if he was trying to collect himself, too. "I can't just see what SOLOMON is doing, watch, and do nothing. I shouldn't have tried."

_We shouldn't have tried_, Doujima corrected him silently. She smiled, and it felt hard against her teeth, like she'd start spitting out nails if she held it for too long. "So I'd rather have my precious syndicate than help a friend, and you'd rather have your precious ideals than help me. It seems to me that we're on even footing, here." Now she thought that she sounded like herself, small and mean and not terribly worried about being either.

Nagira didn't say anything else, didn't try to justify his actions further. Doujima wasn't really sure that he needed to. Was she really angry because he had helped Marco escape? Or was she angry over the implied betrayal? Or was it simply a knee-jerk response to his harsh summary of her loyalty to SOLOMON?

Perhaps she was angry with him because she thought that he was probably right.

Doujima was given no more time to contemplate, because someone was knocking on the downstairs door, the one that let out into the canal. 'Knocking' was really too polite a term; they were pounding on it hard enough that she wondered if the aged wood would hold under so insistent an attack. She went down the stairs, not even pausing to see if Nagira was behind her. He would be.

She pulled the door open, and nearly received a fist to the face when the person standing on the other side tried to continue his knocking. He stopped just in time, and had the grace to look mildly sheepish, tucking both of his scrawny brown arms behind his back. The look quickly faded to be replaced by one of typical teenaged superiority, for the boy standing before Doujima was indeed a teenager, his shaggy dark hair falling into a pair of equally dark eyes, and his loose clothing practically hanging off of his bony frame. He was wearing a t-shirt, in spite of the late hour and the chill in the air, which had become more pronounced after the sun had set.

Doujima didn't know him, but she heard Nagira exclaim behind her. "_You?_ What are you doing..." He trailed off, apparently realizing that the boy probably hadn't understood a word that he'd said.

The boy, however, simply rolled his eyes and looked at Doujima. "You may tell _il turista_," he said, "that I speak _inglese_ perfectly well." His laborious pronunciation and the look of intense concentration on his face made the truth of his statement somewhat dubious, but Doujima didn't bother to point that out to him.

"What are you doing here?" Nagira repeated.

The boy puffed out his chest self-importantly, his face lighting up with pride. "I bring a message from the Witch Queen."

Doujima narrowed her eyes at him. "What does Fiametta Ganza want with me?" The boy responded by giving her a disdainful look down the tip of his narrow nose, and she wondered how he accomplished it, since she was at least half a foot taller than he was.

"Not _you_," he said impatiently, and gestured at Nagira. "_Him_." He frowned. "You are Signor Nagira, yes?"

At Nagira's nod, the boy continued, the frown deepening as though he was trying to remember all that he had been told, stumbling once or twice when he tried to recall a difficult word. "The Witch Queen would like to apologize most sincerely for her earlier discourtesy on Murano," he said, and Doujima felt rather than saw Nagira's answering scowl. "She asks that you meet with her tonight, so that she might impart her regrets to you personally." Having successfully discharged his message, the boy breathed a sigh of relief, and slid a sly glance towards Doujima. "She can come too, I guess. I am supposed to wait for your reply." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the gondola that was floating beside the dock.

Nagira stepped up to the door, forcing Doujima to step aside and make room for him. "Trap?" he asked her.

"Unlikely," Doujima replied. "If she wanted to kill you, she'd just kill you. She wouldn't bother to extend an invitation." She rubbed a hand over her eyes, thinking. "In fact, it's probably the last thing that she'd do. Ganza has a reputation for being somewhat old-fashioned, and there are some very old, very strict rules about the courtesies that a host owes their guest. One of which is, of course, not killing them."

"So, do we go?"

_You're asking my opinion?_ Doujima wanted to ask, as she marveled at the fact that they could still function even after all that had happened in the past hour, all that had been said. Then she remembered what Father Juliano had told her upon her arrival in Venice. SOLOMON had determined that the cause of Alfonso's death had been Craft.

"We go."

---------------------

Disclaimer: _Witch Hunter Robin _ain't mine.

Notes: auntie-mom is my wonderful beta-reader, and I cannot thank her enough. _il turista_ means 'the tourist.' Next chapter: Fiametta Ganza makes her entrance, and the secret of the witches of Venice is revealed.


	9. A Skeleton

'SON:_ You wouldn't want to tell him what we have_

_Up attic, mother?_

MOTHER:_ Bones – a skeleton'._

- Robert Frost, 'The Witch of Coös'

--------------------

Chapter Nine: A Skeleton

Doujima had turned on only the little desk lamp upon entering the hotel room. It cast long shadows across the floor, and left her with barely enough light to see by, so that her reflection in the mirror was mostly a silhouette. Nagira had absented himself, under the pretense of finding somewhere where he could buy a pack of cigarettes. If it had been a pretense. Nagira was hardly the sort of man who absented himself from a situation simply because it was awkward. And the situation right now really was... awkward.

The sound she made in response to that thought was more self-deprecating than not.

The boy who had delivered the Witch Queen's message had gone, and promised to pick them up at the hotel within the next hour. Doujima hadn't bothered to wonder how their hotel had been known; after all, SOLOMON wasn't the only one capable of gathering that kind of information about a potential adversary. She had simply been grateful for the chance to return to the hotel, the chance to prepare.

The blouse that she had changed into was heavy, cream-colored silk. The slacks weren't all that different from the ones that she had been wearing earlier, although they were considerably less wrinkled. The outfit looked cool and professional, although her bare feet looked cold and naked beneath the pants cuff, white skin veined in blue. She eyed her reflection critically in the mirror and, for a moment, she was glad that the lights were so dim. The skin beneath her eyes was paper-thin and bruised looking, and she grimaced. "No excuse to let yourself go..." she muttered to herself, and reached for the bag of cosmetics she had left lying half-open on the bed.

When that was finished, she set the make-up aside and looked at her shadowy reflection again. There was only the briefest hesitation before she reached into the closet, dragging out the largest of her suitcases. It was lighter now than it had been, almost empty. However, there was one item left inside, a crumpled pile of dark fabric. The standard-issue coat that she had been given while working as a Hunter at the STN-J.

Doujima pulled it on slowly, the rougher fabric catching on the silk of her blouse. One last glance at the mirror, and she quickly turned away. It looked different now, like a little girl dressing up in her mother's clothes: a spy dressing up like a Hunter. She jammed a pair of black leather pumps onto her feet, and had just reached for the doorknob when it turned beneath her hand.

There was a pack of cigarettes in Nagira's hand, proof that his errand hadn't simply been an excuse to leave the room. They were open, and two of the pack were already missing, one hanging unlit from between his lips. "We should get going," was all he said.

"Wouldn't want to be late," she murmured in wry agreement. They passed in silence through the hotel, down into the street and around to the canal. The boy was already waiting for them on the banks, his gondola bobbing up and down on the water behind him. In the dark, his narrow features looked sharp and sly, and his brown eyes appeared almost black as they reflected the light from the hotel's windows.

Doujima climbed into the gondola after the briefest of hesitations, and took a seat. She felt the boat dip and sway as Nagira climbed in after her, then again as the boy leapt lightly to the stern of the boat. He took up his oar, and pushed away from the bank, navigating the long black boat quickly through the equally dark water.

Businesses closed early in Venice, and many of the streets they floated by had already shut down for the night, their storefronts dark and empty. In residential areas, lights were just beginning to blink on, casting their glow over the canal as the small boat passed. The whole night was eerily, suspiciously silent, as if the city was holding its breath, ancient mortar and brick muffling any sound. The boy's oar beat a steady rhythm against the water, and she could hear Nagira puffing steadily away at his cigarette, but no one spoke. They passed few other boats on their way, until they exited onto the Great Canal, and suddenly everything was light and noise, even at this hour.

"Almost there," the boy said, with a cheer that seemed just a little bit malicious to Doujima. He was looking her, as if waiting for a response, but she simply lifted a sardonic brow at him. She was not about to be intimidated by some prepubescent changeling with a superiority complex; she hadn't sunk that low yet. The thought made her smile, just a little.

She wasn't entirely surprised when the boy guided the boat to one of the great, crumbling palaces that lined the Grand Canal. It seemed like the sort of place that would house a woman who called herself the Witch Queen. Nagira stepped out of the boat first, then extended a hand to help Doujima up onto the dock. She took it, and it would have been a lie to say that she didn't enjoy the brief curl of his fingers around hers before he dropped her hand.

She shook her head a little to clear it, and once again pulled her mind back to the job, leading it back like a mother pulling her reluctant child along by the hand. She looked at the boy, who raised his hand in an impudent wave. "Just walk straight into the house. Someone will meet you near the door, yeah?"

"Yeah," Doujima muttered, and he pushed away from the dock, the boat growing smaller until it was just another part of the chaotic tangle that was the Grand Canal. Once he was gone, both of them turned towards the palace, which dropped straight into the canal, its front half seeming to dangle precariously above the water, like so many of Venice's older buildings. "Well," she said, staring at the door with a curious reluctance. She had never been terribly faint-hearted, but this felt too much like the hunting she had done back at the STN-J, charging into a witch's lair with nothing more than her wits and... well, nothing more than her wits, really.

As if he could read the reluctance in her face and voice, Nagira smiled, and took the first step towards the door. It opened easily under his hand. "I would say, 'ladies first,' but..." But it was pretty obvious that the lady had no desire to go first through that dark hole of a doorway.

So she sighed, and smirked a little herself, and gestured him forward. "Please. After you." Nagira, of course, had never met a dark and sinister location that he didn't like, and seemed to have no qualms about taking that first step into the house. He paused just over the threshold, and Doujima had no choice but to sigh again and follow him inside.

---

The hallway was dark, but the boy had warned them, and Nagira wasn't entirely unprepared when someone addressed him from the shadows near the door. Nor was he terribly surprised to find that it was the same young man who be had seen browsing through the glass shop while he and Marco had spoken to Claudio. Really, at that point, he fully suspected that the old lady he had seen feeding the pigeons earlier that day and the tourist couple that he and Doujima had passed in the hotel lobby were all really minions of the Witch Queen. It seemed like everyone else he had run into that day was.

"Hello," the man said, with a smile that was probably supposed to be menacing, but looked a little wilted around the edges. "You must be Mr. Nagira." His eyes flicked to Doujima as she entered behind him, and to his credit he didn't miss a beat before continuing. "And, ah, _signorina_. You were not expected." There was the slightest hint of reproach in his voice, and Nagira couldn't help but grin. A witch was criticizing a SOLOMON agent for being so _impolite_ as to invite herself into someone else's home. There were a lot of things that he wasn't finding very funny right now, Doujima's profession top on the list, but he couldn't resist that.

A small guffaw escaped his lips, and the man gave him a puzzled look. Nagira cleared his throat. "Okay, you know who we are. Who are you?"

"Caesar," the man replied, as if that should be answer enough. "She is expecting you." There was a pointed emphasis on the last word, as if what he really wanted to say was _she is expecting _one_ of you_. He turned on his heel without saying anything more, and beckoned for them to follow him down the hallway. With a final glance at Doujima, Nagira did so. A moment later, he heard her footsteps behind him.

"_She_ is _expecting_ you," he heard her mimic, in a darkly melodramatic voice. Nagira glanced over his shoulder at her, and the look on her face was much more nervous than her taunting would otherwise indicate. She caught him looking, and quickly schooled her features. Her eyes danced away from his, looking instead at the intricate molding on the whitewashed walls of the hallway, barely visible in the dim light. He shook his head, and turned back to their guide, who had stopped in front of a pair of pale wooden doors. Caesar gripped the handles, as though he would fling the doors open wide. Instead, he pulled one door open, slowly and quietly, and peered inside briefly before motioning for them to follow him into the room beyond.

The walls of the room were hung in red, velvet curtains dripping from the ceiling and lending a sort of warm opulence to the room. Gilt-painted screens were placed in front of the draperies at points around the room, making the whole room a place of hidden corners and shadows. The light was just as dim as it had been in the hallway, but there was a golden cast to it, turning the pale marble of the floor yellow. Seated on a chaise lounge at the center of the room, as if she had been designed specifically for this place – or, more likely, as if the place had been designed for her – was a woman.

It was difficult to pin down her age. To Nagira's eyes, she didn't look a day past thirty. There was something in her gaze, however, that belied that, her eyes dark and sly and much older than the face that they were set in. Her hair was a blaze of red-gold, not uncommon coloring in this parts, falling over the shoulders of her simply-cut white dress. She should have been overwhelmed by the sumptuous surroundings, but instead, the simplicity of her attire served to draw attention to her. Like the room, the woman was meant to impress.

No need to ask who she was, even before she gestured them both into chairs with a wave of her hand that any royal would envy. This was Fiametta Ganza, who called herself the Witch Queen.

"Signor Nagira," she said, and her voice was surprisingly raspy, almost, but not quite, like an old woman's. "How do you do?" Her eyes flicked towards Doujima, but she nodded cordially, and Nagira thought that she was not entirely surprised to see the SOLOMON spy there. "_Signorina_."

Doujima had settled herself into a chair, the plush red fabric nearly swallowing her. After a moment, Nagira took the one beside her, turning to gaze at the Witch Queen. "Uh-huh. What are we supposed to call you? 'Your Highness'?"

She smiled at the obvious skepticism in his voice. "If you like. If not, Fiametta is fine."

"Uh-huh."

The smile only widened, until a husky laugh trickled past her lips. She motioned to Caesar, who was still standing patiently by the door, his hands folded in front of him. "Fetch us some refreshments." He left the room without question, shutting the door behind him. Apparently, it was good to be queen. That done, she turned to her guests, her expression suddenly businesslike, although some of the amusement remained, lingering at the corners of her mouth. "Now, _signore_, I have been told that I owe you an apology."

Frankly, he was more interested in who would tell Fiametta that she owed anyone anything, but he shrugged. "Sure."

"In that case, I am very sorry for my earlier discourtesy to you," she said formally.

"Yes, trying to drown a person is pretty discourteous," Nagira replied. He saw Doujima flick him a curious glance but, perhaps in the interest of presenting a united front, she kept silent.

Fiametta laughed again, and waved a negligent hand through the air, dismissing his words easily. "I did not try to drown you. If I had tried to drown you, you would be drowned. Caesar, my nephew, whom you have met, was the one responsible, but I was the one who gave the order, and for that I am sorry. I was told later of the work that you have done on the behalf of my people, and I am ashamed that I did not realize who you were sooner. I have heard of you before, you see. I simply did not make the connection. You cannot find that surprising, considering the company you keep." She didn't look at Doujima. She didn't have to. Nagira bristled, because it was one thing for him to disapprove of Doujima, but an entirely different thing when someone else did it. Fiametta saw it, and hurried the subject along. "But I will make it up to you. You have questions, I believe. You may ask them, if you like, although I cannot promise that I will answer." She looked between Nagira and Doujima, and added, with barely perceptible reluctance, "you may both ask."

Though she had been silent until now, Doujima leaned forward. Her eyes were narrowed, and there was an almost feverish glint to them. She looked like a zealot, like someone so caught up in something that they couldn't see anything beyond it. It startled him, and he wondered if he had missed this change in her, or if it was something new. "Fine," she said, and even though her voice was civil, there were sharp edges along it, barely hidden behind faux politeness. "Did you kill the Spaniard?"

For the first time since they had entered the room, Fiametta's attention rested solely on Doujima. The amusement was still on her face, but now there was something almost malicious mixed in with it. "Little girl," she said, "if I had killed the Spaniard, do you truly think that I would tell you so?" Then the malice was gone, and she was all smiles again. She shrugged, spreading her hands out in a helpless gesture, palms up. "Of course, I did not. Nor did any of my people."

"Your people," Nagira murmured.

She looked at him. "The witches of Venice. They follow me, all of them. Does that surprise you?"

He met her sly dark eyes, and shook his head. "No, not really."

Fiametta smiled, pleased, but Doujima was shaking her head. "He died of Craft, though. If not one of your people, then who?" The smile that she gave Fiametta was broadly mocking, more like the Doujima he knew and less like the fanatic she had reminded him of. "As you say, the witches of Venice all follow you."

In an echo of Doujima's pose, Fiametta leaned forward. "So you have the method, _signorina_. But what about a motive, as they say? Why would I wish to kill the Spaniard?"

"Somehow, I doubt you two were bosom buddies," Nagira said.

An elegant shrug seemed to sum up Fiametta's feelings on the matter. "True. I had no love for him, and he had even less for me. One might even say that we were enemies, by simple virtue of what I am and who he worked for." There was an ironic twist to her mouth, another look-that-wasn't-a-look in Doujima's direction. "But I would not have wished him dead. You see, we had something of a... how would you say?... symbiotic relationship. I kept the witches quiet and peaceful, and he kept the Hunters out." For a moment, Nagira thought that he saw a flicker of fear in her eyes, but it disappeared before he could be sure. She shrugged again, just barely raising one shoulder. "I suppose that is all over now. The Hunters will come, and they will bring their guns, and their church-sanctioned witchcraft. So you see, I would have much preferred it if the Spaniard had not died. Better the devil you know, no?"

Doujima started at those words, and Nagira wondered why. She recovered quickly, and seemed to be thinking furiously, her eyes narrowed in thought so that he could almost see the wheels and gears turning behind them. "Okay, say I believe you," she said to Fiametta, "which I don't, but say I do. Could it have been an outsider? Not one of your witches, but someone who came into Venice, maybe someone with a grudge?"

"Anything is possible, I suppose," Fiametta said. "I do try to keep track of the comings and goings of outsiders, especially if I think that they might cause trouble. I do not want anyone to cause trouble, you see? People do slip though, sometimes, though. If, as you say, it was someone who had a grudge against your mentor, they would have been trying to avoid detection."

She looked up at the squeak of wheels against marble. Caesar reentered the room, pushing a cart piled high with plates filled with delicacies. A bottle of wine and some glasses were balanced precariously on the edge of the cart, and there was a carafe of what was probably coffee. "Ah, here we go," she said, clapping her hands together with childish delight. "Caesar. Would you check and see if there were any witches not our own in Venice at the time of the Spaniard's death? _Molte grazie_," she said, as he once again went to do her bidding without the faintest breath of a protest. Once he was gone, Fiametta turned back to Nagira and Doujima. "Would you like some wine? It is very good."

Doujima nodded distractedly, her thoughts still turned inward. "Yes, please," she mumbled, her fingers playing over the arm of the chair as she tried to work out some intricacy or another, some snag in whatever tangled web she was currently weaving. She was distracted, so she didn't notice the obvious diversion of Caesar's entrance with the food, or the secretive slant of Fiametta's eyes, suddenly so pronounced. She didn't notice. Nagira did.

He accepted a glass of wine himself, and sat back in his chair, the cushions embracing him lovingly. Like Doujima, he took a moment to play things over in his head, and considered, and bided his time. Once each of them had a glass, and Fiametta had begun to look smug at pulling off some kind of verbal sleight-of-hand, he spoke.

"You know, it's funny," Nagira said, with deliberate casualness. "When I was poking around this afternoon, asking my questions – you know, before you tried to drown me – someone told me something interesting. He said that the witches of Venice have a secret, something that they're hiding." Fiametta had stopped with her glass midway to her lips, and was staring at him. Doujima had abandoned her musings and was doing the same, her eyes intent on his face.

Finally, Fiametta cleared her throat. "I do not understand your meaning."

"I think you do," he said, softly. "Like you said, if you had really been trying to drown me, I'd be dead now. I'm not dead and you weren't trying to drown me, which means that my earlier dunking was supposed to serve another purpose. It was a warning, meant to scare me away from something. So tell me: if you didn't kill Alfonso, and you don't know who did, what secret are you hiding that you're so desperate to protect?"

There was a whisper of fabric from behind them, like a curtain being brushed aside. Nagira turned, and froze.

"Me," Robin said. "She's protecting me."

--------------------

Disclaimer: None of these lovely characters are mine, especially not Robin. Muahahaha.

Notes: This is about 300-500 words shorter than my usual chapter. Considering the length, I really have no excuse for taking so long. _Molte grazie_ means 'thank you very much.' A big old thanks to WiccanMethuselah for making sure that I don't blind you, the reader, with my _typos of doom_. Stay tuned for the next chapter, which will include more Robin. I promise, I'll finish it eventually.


	10. Stare, Stare

'_O plunge your hands in water  
__Plunge them up to the wrist;  
__Stare, stare in the basin  
__And wonder what you've missed.'_

- W. H. Auden, 'As I Walked Out One Evening.'

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Chapter Ten: Stare, Stare

"Robin"

The name slipped out from Doujima's mouth before she could stop herself, at the same moment that her glass slipped out from between her fingers. Her lips, like her fingertips, felt numb, but the rest of her was buzzing. With all of the possibilities that had occurred to her during the course of the evening and before, she could honestly say that the thought that Robin might somehow be involved had never, _never_ crossed her mind. Although she had known that the witch was still alive, and had admitted as much to Nagira the night that the Factory fell, she had also been telling everyone else that Robin was dead for the past few months. She was a very convincing liar and, as was bound to happen with time, she had very nearly convinced herself that the lie was truth; to come upon Robin so suddenly left her nearly insensible.

Not so insensible, however, that she didn't notice that Fiametta was looking at her with disfavor, although she couldn't tell if it was because of Robin's appearance or the rapidly spreading wine stain on the white marble floor. Then she spoke, and put an end to Doujima's doubts. "That was not wise, Eve."

Eve?

Before Doujima had the chance to do more than wonder about that, the gilded screen that Robin had stepped out from behind shuddered, and was pushed roughly aside. The usual drama of Amon's entrance was somewhat anticlimactic after Robin's presence had been revealed, and the dignity of it was hampered by the fact that he had obviously been hunched over to fit his considerable height behind the screen. In spite of that, he was just as darkly foreboding as Doujima remembered him being. Or at the very least, the look on his face was foreboding, since he had given up the traditional black Hunter's garb in favor of an innocuous pair of khaki slacks and a white shirt that were, on him, utterly ridiculous. Although she was sure that he had adopted that style of dress in the hope of blending in (a hopeless task to begin with), Doujima couldn't quite hold back a quiet, nervous snicker. Amon's scowl, already fierce enough to make a baby cry, deepened.

"They are not to be trusted," Fiametta continued, undeterred.

"Hey," Doujima protested, offended enough to snap out of her daze.

Fiametta sneered at her, and there was a different kind of glint to her eyes, dark and almost dangerous. "Forgive me," she said, "for not trusting the motives of an agent of SOLOMON."

"Are my motives suspect?" Nagira asked, and although his voice was mild, Fiametta fell silent. No wonder – to say that he couldn't be trusted would have made her earlier apology sound distinctly insincere. All the same, her expression was mutinous, and there was still that disturbing light in her eyes when she looked at them, as if, Doujima thought, she was silently debating where to dispose of the bodies. It made Doujima nervous even as she continued to tell herself that the Witch Queen wouldn't do anything unpleasant after having invited them into her home, a reassurance which rang false with Fiametta's malevolent gaze weighing heavy on her. Gone was the cool civility that she had greeted them with; she looked _hostile_.

"They're fine, Fiametta."

The quiet authority in Robin's voice was almost as surprising as her sudden appearance. Even more surprising was Fiametta's reaction. She turned and looked at Robin, then inclined her head in silent, unhappy acquiescence.

_What was going on here?_

Nagira seemed oblivious to it all, although knowing him as she did, Doujima could guess that he was paying more attention to his surroundings than he seemed to be. Most of his attention, however, was focused on his brother and Robin. As casually as if this was nothing more than an afternoon chat over tea with old acquaintances, he said to Robin, "I got your last letter."

He had been getting letters from Robin? She hadn't known that, and the suddenly surprised cast to Amon's scowl seemed to indicate that he hadn't known either. The guilt that flashed across Robin's face confirmed that, and for a moment Doujima found it inordinately funny that Robin could cow the Witch Queen with a few words and a glance, and yet she still wilted under Amon's glaring reproach. That was more like the Robin she knew.

She was surprised by the relief that slid through her at the realization; until that moment, she hadn't realized how much the apparent changes in the younger woman had _worried_ her. Relief made her generous, and she spoke before anyone could question Robin more closely on whatever letters she had been sending to Nagira. "What are you _wearing_?"

Of course, that didn't necessarily mean that whatever came out of her mouth was intelligent, and she winced inwardly as Robin cast a self-conscious glance down her body. Floral prints, Doujima noted, looked nearly as incongruous on Robin as khaki did on Amon. "We didn't think that we... should look like ourselves."

Because SOLOMON might be hunting them. She didn't have to say it; they were all thinking it, and Fiametta cast another baleful look at Doujima, as if she, as an agent of SOLOMON, was personally responsible for the fact that Robin had been forced to wear a sun dress with little yellow daisies on it. Which was ridiculous; she would never be so tasteless as to pick out something with yellow daisies on it. "They're not looking for you anymore," Doujima said, with the same carelessness she had once used to reassure Robin that the Hunters at the STN-J had not been after her. Then, because she noticed that Amon looking at her a little _too_ closely, she added, "but it was probably a good idea to try to blend, anyway."

Nagira snorted, and Doujima could guess what he was thinking. Amon and Robin had about the same chance of blending in as a pair of cats at a rat convention. They were just too strange, strange in a way that couldn't be covered by all the khaki and cotton in the world.

"Yurika has been telling them that you're dead," he said easily, and Doujima was grateful for that. Grateful that he had come to her defense with the one thing likely to stop Fiametta and Amon from glaring at her like she was going to start chewing on the furniture, grateful that in spite of the problems between them, he still didn't believe that she would betray her former comrades.

Sure enough, Amon seemed suddenly easier, the scowl relaxing until his face had rearranged itself his normal expression of vaguely hostile neutrality. Fiametta raised a brow, still defiant, but seemed to be content to leave behind the subject of how untrustworthy Doujima was. She plucked a napkin from the food cart, handed it to the spy, and stared pointedly at the puddle of wine of the floor. Doujima glanced at the napkin, then dropped it on the puddle and pushed it around halfheartedly with her foot, until the napkin was stained red and the floor was more-or-less dry, if somewhat pinker than it had been. Fiametta sighed, but once again remained silent, and Doujima thought that this would undoubtedly be the closest they would ever come to a truce.

With some of the tension in the room having eased, and with the subject of her illicit letter-writing no longer under scrutiny, Robin regained some of her earlier courage. She took a step or two towards Nagira and Doujima, but seemed unsure of what to do from there. Nagira didn't give her a chance to think about it; he took two quick steps forward and swept her into a bone-crushing hug. His complete lack of any sense of propriety was hardly surprising to Doujima, and Fiametta actually seemed mildly amused by it, but the scowl quickly reformed on Amon's face.

"I do have to wonder," he said to Robin, slowly, as if he had forgotten and was only just now remembering what he had _wondered_, "if you have properly considered the possible repercussions of revealing yourself like this."

The wounded look that Nagira shot at Amon was so obviously put on that Doujima shook her head, and couldn't decide whether it was out of amusement or disgust. "Oh, now there's a warm welcome. Something like, 'hey, buddy, how's it going?' or maybe, 'by the way, I'm not dead'? C'mon, Amon, at least say _hello _before you start complaining about how you didn't manage to avoid a fraternal visit. I know that you're rude and antisocial, but that's taking it a bit far, even for you."

It didn't amaze Doujima to see Amon's eyes go dark and shuttered at Nagira's words, or even that Fiametta's expression was suddenly equally unreadable. What surprised her was that Robin averted her gaze and took a step out of Nagira's arms, the almost apologetic set to her shoulders not changing the fact that she was very obviously distancing herself from him. It was as if the three of them shared a secret, and they had very carefully locked Nagira and Doujima out.

As always, the promise of a secret sparked Doujima's interest. However, she also knew when pushing for that secret would put it irretrievably out of her reach, and now was one of those times.

The same, unfortunately, could not be said of Nagira, and he too had felt ths sudden change in the room, and in Robin. "What the hell is going on here?" he demanded.

Overall, Doujima decided, Nagira was probably a cleverer person than she was. Almost certainly he was a _better_ person than she was. But he didn't always think clearly when his emotions were involved, and right now, that was enough to make Doujima grind her teeth together with frustration.

"It _is_ good to see you again," Robin said, with warm sincerity but also with a sort of quiet resignation that told Doujima that the sentiment was mostly meant to soften whatever she was about to say next. She glanced briefly at Amon, then back to Nagira. "I think it would be best if you left now."

Fiametta looked unbearably smug. "I will arrange for you to be escorted home."

Doujima's hand on Nagira's arm stilled the protest on his lips, and she was grateful too that he still allowed that. Earlier, she had let her emotions guide her when confronting Fiametta, and he had remained calm and blessedly logical. Now that their roles were reversed, she found herself remarkably clear-headed, focused on the people in the room and what had been said and not said.

So, when Fiametta said that she would arrange for an escort, it was Doujima who nodded and said, "Yes, of course. That would be appreciated." And when they were leaving the room with Fiametta's ever-obedient nephew, it was Doujima whose elbow Robin caught and, with another cautious but oddly undeferential glance back at Amon, Doujima's ear into which she whispered the word, "Later."

It was Doujima who was left to ponder the promise in that word and the meaning of that glance during the silent ride back to the hotel, and it was Doujima who was left to continue pondering after Nagira had angrily excused himself to go to bed where, she was relatively certain, he would not be getting any sleep. The thought that he really was avoiding her now gave her a little pang, but it wasn't enough to interfere with the clarity of her thoughts, and as soon as he had closed the bedroom door behind him, she left the hotel.

It was a long, silent trek through the sleeping city, and she didn't really realize where she was going until she found herself standing in front of Intelligence's headquarters. She let herself into the building, and went up the steep steps without bothering to turn on a light. When she did reach the office and flip on the overhead light, it seemed both too bright and muted, casting a sickly yellow glow over the desk, the shelves, and the piles of books on the floor.

Without pause, Doujima scooped up the three objects that she had been examining earlier: the watch, the journal, and the leather-bound copy of Milton. She quickly discarded the first two, and turned her attention to the last. _This_ was where the answers she needed were hidden, she knew it, if only she could just figure out where.

Once more, she flipped through the pages of the book. She ran her fingers along their gilded edges, then over the gently creased leather of the cover and the gold lettering on the spine. There was a silk ribbon attached to the binding, so that the reader could mark their place, but it wasn't between any of the pages; instead, it was tucked behind the front cover and before the filler page. Idly, she ran sensitive fingertips over the inside of the cover... and felt a almost imperceptible bump beneath the smooth paper.

She stopped, an eerie calm sweeping through her. Although excitement bubbled up in her chest, she ignored it, smoothing her hand over the inside cover once again. She could barely feel it, but it was there; a lump, a place where the paper wasn't as level as it should have been. Uncaring that she was chipping her carefully manicured nails, she used them to rip at the cover, rending paper from leather and finding at last a carefully folded, impossibly thin piece of onionskin.

The book slid carelessly from her hands and onto the floor, and she unfolded the onionskin paper. On it was written the key to a code, in the same blocky letters that filled the pages of the book that she had found in Alfonso's desk.

She took the piece of paper over to where she had left the book and the watch and, with hands that trembled, began to decode Alfonso's journal.

It was a slow process. He had obviously been keeping the book for years, and it was in Spanish, which was not one of her better languages and required almost as much troublesome translating as the code did. It was more of a date book than an actual journal, although occasionally there would be a quickly scrawled thought or idea in between the ongoing list of appointments and other daily tasks. Much to Doujima's surprise, _her_ name appeared regularly, especially during entries written in the time that she had been in Japan. It seemed that her mentor had followed her progress very closely.

The entries stopped abruptly around the same time that the Factory had fallen – Alfonso wrote briefly that Charlie had returned with confiscated materials from the Factory site, but without much interest, since it was followed by a brief note that he was out of milk and eggs. After that, there was nothing, and panic welled up in Doujima as she flipped through the following pages, all of them blank. That couldn't be _it._

Several pages later, there was another entry, two lines standing in isolation on an otherwise empty page. She decoded it quickly, recognizing the familiar patter of her own encoded name, and felt her blood run cold once she had deciphered the rest of it.

The entry had been written on the day he had died.

The first line read simply, _'Doujima, il ponte.'_

The second line read: _'dinner, Julianno, eight.'_

It was the first line that held the information she had been searching for, a note left especially for her, confirming her belief that Alfonso had left the book for her to find. It was the second line that made her double over against the sudden ricocheting pain in her gut, allowing the book to slide from nerveless fingers to land beside the volume of Milton on the floor.

It didn't mean anything, she told herself. He had eaten dinner with Father Julianno on the night that he had died, but it didn't mean anything except that two old friends had gotten a chance to see each other one last time. It didn't mean anything, but it was enough to make her doubt, and wonder why Julianno hadn't mentioned it himself when she had seen him.

Slowly, painfully she pushed those doubts away to turn her attention once again to the first line of writing on the page. _Il ponte_. The bridge. The Sargent painting on the wall and her own half-remembered dream left little doubt as to _which_ bridge he had meant. Just as slowly and painfully, she straightened, and stood. Whatever had happened – and she refused to let her suspicions take root, keeping them shadowy and half-formed in her mind – the only way to find out for sure would be to find the hidden files... and whatever else Alfonso might have left there for her.

After a moment's thought, she shoved the pile of papers she had been using the translate the journal into her coat pocket, as well as the onionskin with the code's key on it. The journal she left where it had fallen, since it was useless to anyone who might try to read it without the key. The Milton she also left, its pages crumpled against the ground and its cover ripped apart, ravaged of its secrets. She took the pocket watch without really knowing why, whether it was for sentimental value or as a talisman or something else entirely, and was just fumbling the lights off when the door creaked open.

Doujima tensed, holding her breath, and found herself looking into Robin's eyes from a distance of several inches away, the younger girl's face easily recognizable even in the dark.

She had very nearly forgotten about Robin in the hours between their meeting and now, and she found herself once again taken unawares upon finding herself facing the girl, the breath she had been holding escaping as a gasp. In that moment while she tried to regain her equilibrium, Robin spoke, her voice soft but strikingly determined... or perhaps not so strikingly, since she could now recall clearly that if there was one thing that Robin, quiet though she was, had _never_ lacked, it was determination. "Doujima. I need to speak to you."

"No," Doujima said, before she could stop to think about it. Then she did think about it, and quickly corrected herself. "I mean, yes, but not right now. I have something that I need to do." All of her earlier curiosity had melted away, replaced by a newfound urgency.

This made Robin pause, and she cast Doujima a glance filled with her own curiosity, mild by comparison but almost more compelling because it lacked any form of subtlety and there was no attempt made to conceal it. "What do you need to do?"

Like so many things that she had done in the past weeks, like bringing Nagira to Venice or accepting Fiametta's invitation, Doujima's response was guided by either instinct or impulse, and she couldn't have said which one it was. "There's something that I need to get. Would you like to come with me?"

There was a serenity in Robin's features as she looked at Doujima that the older woman envied greatly. "The files," she said simply, and Doujima didn't even bother to wonder how she had known about that. As secrets went, the reason for Doujima's presence in Venice wouldn't have been a difficult one to uncover, especially when one had the Witch Queen... or Amon... as a friend.

So she just said, "yes," and Robin nodded to show that she would come. They went down the stairs without exchanging so much as a word.

As they untethered the boat from the dock, Robin said, "I'm sorry that I sent you away."

Doujima replied, "I'm sorry that I wasn't there to stop you from buying that dress."

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Disclaimer: So not mine.

Notes: Beta read by the beauteous and talented WiccanMethuselah. Coming soon(ish): _Undone_, and a murderer revealed.


	11. Undone

1' "_Alas he is betrayed, and I undone!" '_

- William Shakespeare, 'Othello.'

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Chapter Eleven: Undone

The door closed, and Nagira waited until he heard Doujima's footsteps receding down the hall, the heels on her shoes clicking out a staccato rhythm against the floor as she left. He wondered briefly where she was going, but quickly abandoned that thought before it could turn into worry or, worse yet, the desire to follow her. Doujima was smart enough to keep herself safe, and he was too angry with her right now to want to be near her. Back in the quiet stillness of their shared hotel room, with no common enemy to confront in the form of the Witch Queen, the feelings that their earlier argument had awakened, simmering quietly all evening, had risen back to the boiling point.

With a frown that would haven rivaled Amon at his worst, he crossed the room, settling himself into one of the chairs near the window. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and placed it in his mouth, then took out his lighter, but he didn't light it. Instead, he flicked the lighter on and off, watching as the flame sprang to life and died with the movement of his fingers.

Robin.

His anger faded, washed away by a flood of puzzlement. Robin was here, in Venice, and that was enough to throw him for a loop. He couldn't make heads or tails of it; it seemed like too much of a coincidence that she was here when all of this was going on. Then again, the possibility that it was mere chance wasn't entirely out of the question. After all, she had last written to him from Spain; why shouldn't Italy be the next stop on whatever cross-continental joy ride his brother was taking her on?

That brought him to the subject of his brother. Unfortunately, he knew _exactly_ what to think about Amon, and his presence in Venice. From Robin, the chilly reception had been bewildering, but from Amon it had been completely expected. He and Amon were connected, and probably always would be, but there had never been a lot in the way of brotherly love between them, not since they had been children. Sometimes he thought that he saw some slight lingering trace of affection, but it was nearly impossible to tell with Amon.

"Amon is bipolar," he muttered to himself around his unlit cigarette, with what he felt was a well-earned amount of irritation. "Of course, his poles are about _this_ far apart—," here he held up a finger on each hand, with about six inches of space between them, "—but my point still stands." With the hand that wasn't holding the lighter, he formed a puppet, and started speaking a falsetto that sounded nothing like Amon, but was meant to represent him all the same. "'Robin's a witch! Wait, no, she's not; I guess I'll send her to live with my doting and ever-patient older brother. No, never mind, I've changed my mind again, and now believe that Robin _is_ a witch and in need of a good being hunted. I think that I'll stalk her and generally act like a creep until I get a chance to _hit my brother over the head with the butt of a gun_.'" Ignoring the fact that it had actually been Doujima who had hit him, Nagira dropped both the voice and his hand, raising it a moment later to rub at the back of his head. "Why should now be any different?"

He chuckled.

The tip of the cigarette smoldered as he finally lifted the lighter to it, and he relaxed further back into the chair's overstuffed embrace. Anger and irritation banished by the Amon hand-puppet (not an effect that the real life version had ever had on him), he began to think about the night's events. Fiametta's coy half-lies, Robin and Amon's sudden appearance… it all raised more questions than it answered. Nagira sighed, and ground out his half-smoked cigarette against the windowsill, leaving a dark smudge on the white plaster. There was only one thing to do about it; he had to return to the home of the Witch Queen, and talk to his brother.

Boy oh boy, how he wasn't looking forward to that.

Except… he almost was. There was a part of him that _missed_ goading Amon when the other man wasn't around. With that thought to cheer him, and his ever-present white coat to warm him, he levered himself out of the chair and left the room.

----------

_Plish, plish,_ went the water as the boat slid through it.

_Whir, whir,_ went the boat's engine.

_Thunk, thunk,_ went Doujima's heart.

_This,_ she thought, with mild annoyance, _is getting a little bit ridiculous_. She had been under the impression that she and Robin were going to talk on the boat ride to the Bridge of Sighs, but so far the silence with which they had left the office had been continued, not broken. Robin seemed more concerned with the passing water than with any form of conversation or, more importantly, with answering any of the questions that were once again pressed hard against the back of Doujima's teeth with the effort to keep them inside her mouth.

_Then again, if _I _don't start talking, I doubt that she will_. "Robin?"

"Hmm?" She dragged her eyes away from the water, and turned to look intently at Doujima.

Doujima would never have admitted it, but it was actually a little disconcerting to have all of Robin's attention focused on her. She cleared her throat awkwardly, and blurted the first question that came to mind, thinking about it only long enough to make sure that this time it wasn't anything concerned with Robin's wardrobe or hair. "Where have you _been_?"

Robin averted her eyes, and Doujima was almost relieved. "On the run," she said, softly. "We knew, or thought we knew, that SOLOMON had declared us dead, but it was still too risky to settle in one place. They're everywhere."

This time, when Doujima suppressed a shudder, it had nothing to do with the heavy weight of Robin's gaze, and everything to do with her words. "Yes, I see. I did my best to keep them from going after you."

The smile that Robin turned to her was as tentatively sweet as it had always been, a brief gleam of white teeth between slightly parted lips. "I know." For a moment, Doujima looked at her, and wondered that she had thought Robin plain when they had first met. Now, the soft, spare lines of the other woman's face put her in mind of nothing so much as some Renaissance painting of Mary by one of the old Italian masters; Botticelli, perhaps. There was the same serenity in her face, the same core of strength, and it was not a comparison that comforted Doujima because it once again reminded her that SOLOMON had decided to hunt someone whom she was mentally comparing to the Madonna.

Oh, she was in _so_ much trouble.

Robin was looking at her with open puzzlement, reminding Doujima that it had been too long since she had said anything. "What have you and Amon been doing? Just traveling?"

Once again, Robin's eyes slid away from her, and this time it felt like actual avoidance of the question. "Oh. Nothing really important. We've, um, met a lot of interesting people."

"Like Fiametta?"

"Like Fiametta," Robin said, more firmly than Doujima had expected. "I know that she's a bit…"

"Viciously hostile?"

"…yes, but she's really not a bad person. She's been very good to Amon and I." Robin paused, her mouth forming a thoughtfully moue. "I've learned a lot from her. It's just… she doesn't trust you."

Doujima's momentary panic about _what_, exactly, Fiametta could have been teaching Robin was replaced by amusement at the guilt that colored the girl's last words. After all, Robin had survived months in Nagira's care without corruption; surely she could survive a few weeks with the Witch Queen. As for Fiametta's mistrust of Doujima… "Robin, she's not wrong. I'm not going to betray you, or bring SOLOMON Hunters down on your head, but I am what I am. Fiametta Ganza can't know for sure what's going on in my head, but she knows that I'm an agent of SOLOMON, so she's concerned." This, of course, did not make Doujima _like_ Fiametta any more, but it did make sense. "You trust me, right?" At Robin's hasty nod, she smiled with more cheer and charm than she actually felt and said, "Well, that's all that matters."

"Amon—"

"Has never trusted me, and will never trust me," Doujima said, with a little shrug. She didn't bother to add that Amon's mistrust, unlike Fiametta's, was not _entirely_ unfounded. He had accused her once of selling out her friends, and he had been right. To his mind, what was to keep her from doing so again? "As long as he's not about to shoot me to make sure that I keep quiet – he's not, right? – then I think we'll get along just fine."

Another little smile lit Robin's face, but this one had secrets hidden in the corners of it. All she said, however, was, "I don't think that Amon is going to shoot you."

"Good," Doujima said, although she was more concerned with the secrets concealed in that smile than Amon's possible plans to silence her. Not that the possibility of Amon silencing her didn't concern her, but, well, her priorities _had_ always been a little bit skewed. "So," she said, "how does being on the lam suit you?" She didn't really expect a serious answer, and was surprised to see Robin's brow crease with concentration or concern.

"There's so much to do," she murmured, and Doujima didn't think that the words were meant for her. "So much that I need to do, but haven't been able to."

"Like what?" Doujima asked, but Robin was shaking her head. Doujima was left with the frustrating impression that she had caught a glance of whatever secret Robin – along with Amon, and Fiametta – was hiding, but only a glance and nothing more, with no answer in sight.

As if she sensed her frustration, Robin turned to her and asked the one question guaranteed to derail Doujima's thoughts. "Why is Nagira here with you?"

"Er," Doujima said, as articulately as she could manage. She lowered her eyes automatically, only to look back at Robin a moment later. She wasn't quite sure what she expected to see; perhaps the wide-eyed naivete of a girl raised in a convent. What she had _not_ expected was the slyly knowing look on Robin's face, her lips curved into a little half-smile. Doujima made a small, indignant sound, then wrinkled up her nose when Robin responded with a giggle instead of immediate contrition.

Well, two could play at that game. "I'm using him for his body," Doujima said, absolutely deadpan. This time, she was rewarded with a blush and another giggle. "Why is Amon here with you?" she added, pushing her advantage.

Robin's eyes shot up to Doujima's face. "Oh, no, nothing like..." She trailed off when she saw the grin on Doujima's face, and turned to careful contemplation of her knees where they poked up from under that horrid yellow daisy pattern. "Amon is my warden. Nothing more than that."

"I see," Doujima said, with mock solemnity. "That is a problem."

Much to her surprise, Robin didn't protest.

Doujima studied her for a moment, then grinned again, just because she could. She felt better, lighter than she had in days. It would pass; the enormity of Alfonso's death and the mystery behind it would come crushing down on her again. The shocked pain of her argument with Nagira and the confusion over Robin's being in Venice would return, but for now she felt... okay.

"We're here," Robin said, softly. Doujima looked up to see the Bridge of Sighs before her, short and enclosed, arching gracefully more than a man's height above the water. "What now?" Robin asked, contemplating the bridge with her, frowning as if that would force it to reveal whatever secrets it held. "Do we go inside?"

"That wouldn't be easy at this time of night," Doujima said, shaking her head. "No, he would have wanted his hiding place to be easily accessible, in case he needed to get to it." Her eyes skimmed across the peaceful water, and the frown etched on her face was an unconscious echo of Robin's. Finally, her gaze moved from the Doge's Palace on one side of the canal to light upon the prison on the other side.

'_And that's us, isn't it?'_ her memory whispered to her._ 'Prisoners. Prisoners on a bridge of straw.'_

"There," she said, and used the rudder to steer the little boat towards that side of the canal. They came up beside the wall where it disappeared into the water, and Robin winced when the side of their boat scraped against the crumbling stone. Doujima didn't so much as twitch, the whole of her attention focused on the task before her. It was here, she was sure of it, although she couldn't have said how she knew.

It was dark, but she finally found what she was looking for. Higher up on the wall and directly beneath the bridge, just where a person standing in a boat could reach it and still remain hidden from the sight of anyone on the bridge or in the surrounding buildings, was a plaster mold of Saint Mark's lion that matched the one on Alfonso's watch. It looked as old as the stone around it, although it was probably considerably newer, and would have been nearly lost from sight from more than a few feet away. Doujima stood in the boat with as much care as her eagerness would allow, and reached for it.

"Wait," Robin said, and something in her voice made Doujima draw up short, her hand hovering above the plaster lion.

When Robin stood, she did so quickly and not so carefully, and Doujima reached out to steady her as the boat rocked. They both held their breath, but once the boat had evened out again, Robin turned back to the wall. She reached out, her hand held a few inches away from the lion, where Doujima's had been almost a moment before. "Don't you see?" she asked, and Doujima was about to reply that no, she most certainly did _not_ see, when suddenly she _did_. Scratched into the stone, almost invisible in the darkness, were a series of spiky, illegible markings.

"Craft?" Doujima guessed.

"Yes," Robin said. She braced her arms against the wall on either side of the patch of plaster, and leaned forward slowly so that she wouldn't push the boat away from the wall. With her face tilted up towards the molded lion, she inhaled slowly, once and then twice, like a hound trying to catch a scent. It reminded Doujima of the first time that she had seen Robin work, when she and Zaizen had followed the young Craft-user through the warehouse as she hunted. What was it that Zaizen had said? Something about the way that Craft Masters worked in their native country; it seemed that some habits died hard, although Doujima couldn't help but reflect that Robin looked just as strange sniffing at the architecture now as she had then. After a moment, the young woman turned back to Doujima, puzzled. "If the Spaniard was the Craft-user who set these in place... he's dead?"

"He's dead," Doujima confirmed. She didn't wonder that Robin knew who Alfonso was; most of SOLOMON knew him by reputation. What made her wonder was the almost dubious tone to Robin's voice when she had asked if he was dead.

Robin seemed unconcerned, though; she simply nodded, and returned to her examination of the plaster and the markings around it. "The Craft used here hasn't faded with his death. It's rare, but not unheard of. If the will of the Craft-user is strong, or they pour a lot of their power into a spell, or even if they're feeling some extraordinarily strong emotion while they're using their Craft, the effects can sometimes outlast the person that the Craft originated from." She leaned closer to one of the markings, although this time it was to squint at it in an attempt to make out the design, using her eyes instead of her nose. "He must have put a great deal of effort into making sure that whatever he hid here remained hidden."

"That does sound like Alfonso," Doujima allowed.

"Was that his name?" Robin wondered. She didn't wait for Doujima to answer, but held out a hand. "Do you have something that I can write with?"

Doujima checked her pockets. "No," she said, with an apologetic shrug. She had brought the watch, the papers and everything else she might need, but a pen was not among those things.

For a moment, Robin looked frustrated. Then she glanced back at Doujima, and her expression lightened. "Your earring, then. I can use it to mark the stone." Doujima almost balked at the thought of sacrificing any part of her wardrobe in such a way, but she stopped herself, and reached up to take the earring off.

"Desperate times call for desperate measures, I guess," she grumbled, dropping the backing for the earring into her pocket and handing the rest of it to Robin. Robin smiled, and turned back to the design on the wall. To Doujima, it looked like she was changing the pattern of the markings, subtly altering them by adding a line in one place, or chipping away another until it was no longer a part of the overall pattern but merely another indent in the already uneven stone. Another careful line was added near the lion's mane, and—

There was a muffled _whumph_, like an explosion within an enclosed space, and sparks showed around the edges of the molded plaster. Robin winced. Doujima looked up, half-expecting the ancient wall to collapse on them.

"Was that supposed to happen?" she asked Robin.

"Well, almost," Robin said. "It was a little... flashier... than I had anticipated. There was a booby-trap."

Doujima considered that. "Yeah, that sounds like Alfonso, too." She laughed, a little nervously, and ran a hand through her hair. "All the same, let's try not to blow up any monuments of a bygone era, hmm?"

"Okay."

Robin had always had only a passing acquaintance with the concept of sarcasm, and for a moment, Doujima missed Nagira fiercely. It was only for a moment, though, especially since she was relatively certain that he wouldn't have been able to disable Alfonso's leftover Craft and, beyond that, that any attempts of his to do so would have ended with _them_ getting blown up. This was much better.

Or so she thought at first, but after ten minutes of watching Robin struggle to remove the plaster in a variety of different ways to no avail, Doujima was beginning to reconsider. Finally, frustrated with watching Robin and being unable to do anything herself, Doujima reached out to touch the plaster mold of the lion.

She screamed when her hand passed _through_ the plaster, and into the apparently solid wall.

Robin tilted her head, and leaned forward to consider the place where Doujima's wrist was sticking out of the wall. "How interesting."

"This isn't interesting," Doujima said, her voice going a little shrill. She cleared her throat, and carefully modulated her tone, so that neither Robin nor the neighborhood dogs had to suffer. When she spoke again, she thought that she sounded remarkably calm. "This is disturbing. What just _happened?_"

"I think it was keyed to you," Robin said, as if this was a very obvious explanation for the fact Doujima was wrist-deep in a wall. "There's an illusion of some sort in place, which makes it appear that there's plaster molding and wall where there really... isn't. It feels solid to me, which means that you must be the only one able to penetrate it. I guess that I didn't have to trigger that booby-trap after all."

"Oh," Doujima said weakly. "So nothing else is going to explode, right?"

"I don't think so. Try pushing your arm in, and see."

This was not terribly reassuring, and Doujima said so. _("What do you mean, you don't _think _so?!")_ She also expressed her aversion to the idea of pushing her arm _further_ into the wall. _("In? I want it out!")_

The look that Robin gave her bordered on exasperated, and Doujima didn't need Robin to say anything to know that she was being a baby about this. "Doujima, nothing is going to explode, and you're not going to find what you're seeking unless you start looking. Well, feeling."

Doujima grimaced, but nodded. "Fine. But if there's anything creepy-crawly in here, I'll never forgive you."

Her hand fumbled around behind the wall, and she looked away, because watching her arm move through stone was disconcerting and more than a little distracting. It was damp behind the wall, and the angle that her arm was at was awkward, so it took a few minutes before her fingers brushed against something. Not the cold roughness of more stone, nor (thankfully) anything living, but paper. A pile of paper.

Slowly, Doujima withdrew her hand. In it was a thick stack of manila file folders.

"I've got it," she said, her voice shaky with triumph. She flipped open the top folder, glanced over it, and quickly flipped it shut again. Then she looked at Robin. "Thank you."

Robin smiled, but for the first time, Doujima sensed a reluctance in her. "You're welcome. Doujima..."

"You don't want me to hand these over to SOLOMON, do you?" she asked. She didn't know for sure, but it was a good guess. Robin's face looked very pale in the dim light beneath the bridge, and she nodded, then shivered in her thin dress.

"I know what's in those files. Personnel records, for everyone who's ever spied for SOLOMON. Doujima... I told you once that if you ever stopped hunting, you would become the hunted," Robin said quietly. "Shouldn't... don't you think that those people should have that choice? If they really want to work for SOLOMON, they'll come forward. If they don't... then shouldn't they be allowed to get away, without SOLOMON trying to reel them back in?"

It was too close to what Nagira had said earlier, and Doujima drew back from Robin, suddenly angry. "So that's why you came with me tonight?" She shouldn't have felt betrayed. God knew that she had done worse, in her time.

"No," Robin said, her quiet serenity a jarring counterpoint to Doujima's sudden anger. "I came because you needed the help. But I want you to think about what handing over those files will mean before you do it."

"You could take them," Doujima said, "if you wanted to. You have the power."

For a moment, Robin was silent, and Doujima wondered if she had upset her. When she spoke, though, her voice was as slow and even as it had ever been. "I could," she admitted. "I won't." Another momentary pause, before she reached out and touched Doujima's hand, dirty from fumbling around inside the wall and still clutching the folders. Robin's hand was warmer than she had expected, although she didn't find it surprising considering the girl's Craft; warm and amazingly reassuring.

"I need to think about this."

"Yes, I know."

"I'm still a SOLOMON agent." Now she sounded defiant, her voice hoarse and harsh in the stillness beneath the bridge.

"I know that, too." Robin just sounded sad, and a little bit tired. She dropped her hand, and carefully settled back into the boat. "Will you take me back to road near the Grand Canal? I can find my way back to Fiametta's from there."

Doujima nodded, and moved to do as she asked, settling the files on the floor of the boat between them before revving the engine. When they reached the Grand Canal, only a short distance away, she steered the boat up to the road, and held it steady while Robin climbed out. Then she paused, unwilling to let their little adventure end so awkwardly when it had started so well. Maybe Robin felt the same, because she lingered on the bank, unmoving, even though she was still shivering beneath the atrociously ugly flower print of her dress.

"I trust you," she said, after a moment. "You'll make the right choice."

Of course, that made things more awkward, and not less. Doujima almost sighed, and let her eyes drop to the pile of files, trying to ignore the feeling that working for SOLOMON was going to isolate her from everyone she liked. Because she did like Robin, considered her a friend even, but the moment that SOLOMON came into the picture...

Just like Nagira.

Struck by sudden inspiration, she reached for the pile of folders. She set the file on top off to one side without even looking at it, and reached instead for one below it. Sheet after sheet of paper, all filled with Alfonso's cramped-yet-neat writing, all with a passport sized photo attached to the right-hand corner. They were alphabetized, as she had suspected they would be; Alfonso was nothing if not methodical. This file contained the A's and the B's, and she found the one she wanted midway through the stack. Carefully, she pulled it out from between the other papers, and passed it to Robin.

"What's this?" Robin asked, as she took the paper. She studied the picture in the corner; an Italian man with plump cheeks that looked like they were made for smiling and a deep scowl engraved on his face.

"One person that SOLOMON won't be reeling in," Doujima said. She took a deep breath. "Think of it as a good faith gesture."

"Doujima—"

"I need to think about the rest of them," she snapped, before Robin had a chance to finish.

Robin cast her a startled look. "Okay. I was just going to say thank you."

Doujima felt her cheeks flush in the darkness and, in all honesty, was surprised to find that she still _could_ blush. It was embarrassing, though, because she should have known that Robin wouldn't use the opportunity to push for the other files. At least, not without first expressing gratitude for what she had been given. "You're welcome." Robin smiled, and it was still a little embarrassing, but at least the gesture had smoothed over some of the awkwardness between them, and soothed Doujima's conscience. Like the blush, the presence of that small inner twinge was surprising, much less the fact that she actually felt the need to heed it.

She pushed the boat away from the street with a final wave to Robin, and made her way back onto the canal. Once again, her conscience (pesky, pesky thing) rose up to plague her, and it got worse the further she got from where she had left Robin. She couldn't tell what was causing her sudden guilt; whether it was because she had given Robin Marco's file, or whether it was because she hadn't given Robin the rest of the files. She returned to Alfonso's office because she didn't want to go back to the hotel, but didn't go inside. Instead, she settled herself on the creaky old dock, the stack of files beside her.

Almost hesitantly, Doujima reached for the file at the top of the stack, the first one she had opened after finding them beneath the bridge, and the one she had so quickly discarded when looking for Marco's personnel file. Inside was a single sheet of paper and a thin, square envelope, carefully sealed with wax. At the top of the paper was her name, staring boldly out at her as it had when she had first opened the folder.

She looked blankly at her name for a moment, then forced her eyes to move downwards.

_Yurika,_

_I shouldn't be writing this letter. There are things that I now know which I need to tell you, but still, I shouldn't be writing this. You can have no idea how much this decision has bothered me because, while I know that you will have need of the information contained in this letter, I also know of the trouble that such information may cause you. It's trouble – and pain – that I would spare you, if I could. But there's more at stake here than my comfort or your's, my girl, and besides, I know that you'd never thank me for withholding knowledge from you for the sake of your comfort, or even your safety._

_So be it. I've taught you everything else I know, so you'll inherit this, my most dangerous secret, as well. Perhaps you can guess how dangerous it is when I tell you that it's most likely the reason that I'm dead, or missing, or both. You're surprised? Of course I'm dead or missing, or you wouldn't be reading this letter. I left it for you to find, knowing what might happen. No one but you could follow my trail, after all; think of it as a final test from your mentor._

_You weren't looking for this, I'm sure. You were looking for other, more commonplace secrets, like the files I left with it. Well and good; I leave those in your capable hands as well, although you may come to regret that inheritance, too. Which brings me back to this letter, and the envelope that came with it, which, incidentally, contains one of those disks that can be played in a computer. Yes, I hate the blasted things, but there was no other way._

_The disk came into my hands several months ago, shortly after you completed the Orbo assignment. Not in its present form; it was included in a box that Charlie rescued from the Factory after its collapse, part of a computer that was almost completely destroyed. Still, I thought that no harm could come from attempting to recover the data contained therein, and that something interesting or perhaps even useful might come of it. I had Charlie find someone in the city who could work on restoring it, and thought no more about it until that disk was unexpectedly returned to me. On it, I was told, was all of the information that could be restored from the computer, although much had been lost._

_Most of it was concerned with the running of the Factory; progress reports, blueprints, accounting records, much of which would have been helpful during your time working on the Orbo project, but which was useless after the Factory's destruction. Then I found the recording. It changed everything._

_I am important enough within the organization to have had heard rumors before this, of secret research done years ago and what came of it. You may guess how carefully such information was hidden, if even I had only heard rumors. The truth behind these rumors was the reason for your inclusion in the Orbo project, and the Assembly's desperation to see it destroyed, but few of the Assembly's members knew the whole truth. Julianno knew, although he never told me. Cardinal Crocetti, who heads the Assembly, almost certainly did. You father may have._

_The recording was of a man named Toudo, who had been left in charge of the research, all those years ago – fifteen years, to be precise. The project was shut down, but Toudo continued his research, and in so doing, he betrayed the confraria and all that it stood for. I still don't know what he hoped to accomplish; perhaps he himself had realized that there was a great wrong that needed to be addressed, or perhaps he was simply hoping to, as you might say, piss SOLOMON off._

_Needless to say, Toudo died. But he left behind him the Eve, the fruit of his life's work, and the fruit of his wife's womb._

_Hope._

_You have no idea how long I have lived without that, without hope. You can't, Charlie can't, no one within the syndicate who isn't a Craft-user truly can. From the moment we're recruited, we're taught that there is something within us that is inherently evil, something which belongs to the Devil, something which is more than half demonic itself. We're taught that the only way to redeem ourselves is to fight against those that are like us, to hunt and to kill them, and that even that probably won't work. Most of all, we are taught to despair. _

_There is nothing like being taught, from childhood onward, to hate yourself; nothing that I can compare it to that would make you understand. And there is nothing like finding out, finally, finally, that all those things they taught you were wrong. Finding out that, instead of trying to redeem you, they were trying to keep you weak, and use you to kill those that you should have embraced instead. No words could describe the guilt, the anger, and – the hope._

_We were gods once. They never taught us that, when they were teaching us to hate._

_I'm not a foolish man, Yurika. I didn't listen to Toudo's words and immediately believe that what he said was true. After all, he had his own reasons to believe as he did, and to believe that what he had done was right. But what he said... ah, my girl, it was like the final piece in a puzzle, a puzzle made up of all the things that SOLOMON had done over the years that had made me hesitate, made me wonder and doubt. Such doubts were easy to dismiss before, but that's changed. Everything has changed, and although I cannot regret those changes, and they fill me with joy like I've never known, I fear that they will also be my undoing._

_If I could ask you one thing, it would be to reconsider your own allegiance, and to keep her safe if you can. I don't know who she is, although I have my suspicions, but she's important, she's all we have. And keep yourself safe, of course. I don't have any right to ask these things of you, I know. I have loved you as if you were my own daughter, I have taught you everything I know... and I have used you shamelessly, betrayed you, betrayed the organization that you believe in, and given to you secrets which should never have been revealed, and which may be your undoing as well as my own. But if you would grant an old man one last favor, that would be it. _

_I love you. I can't forgive them. I hope that you can forgive me._

_Alfonso_

With trembling hands, Doujima placed the letter back into the file, sliding it carefully under the envelope which contained the disk.

"Oh, my God," she whispered. Then, because that didn't seem like enough, she said, _"Fuck."_ That was better, although it didn't come close to summarizing her feelings. Then she gathered the files and went inside, because she could think of nothing else to do.

She didn't expect to find Charlie there, half crouched near the door as he looked through _Paradise Lost_, which she had left abandoned on the floor. He set down the book and straightened when she came in, and his expression turned concerned when her saw her. "Yurika? Are you okay?"

"Why?" she mumbled. "Don't I look okay?"

"Not really," he replied, with a promptness that would have been insulting had she been in any mood to notice it. "Come on, sit down." He reached out and led her around the desk, to sit in Alfonso's chair. As he did so, he noted the stack of file folders in her arms, and excitement sparked in his eyes. "You found them?" he asked.

Doujima laughed, and didn't like the edge of hysteria in her voice. "I found more than I ever wanted to find."

"What?" Charlie asked, his brow furrowed with confusion. "You're not making any sense. What happened to you? You came ripping through my hotel earlier, and now this…"

"I wouldn't even know where to start," Doujima said, raking her hand through her hair and leaving blond tufts sticking out in all directions. "I didn't expect to find this, Charlie. That's not why I came here. I mean, it is, I wanted to find out what happened to Alfonso, but I didn't come here to find _this_." The words escaped her in a half-panicked rush, and she couldn't have stemmed the tide if she had tried. Charlie stood next to her chair, his eyes fixed on her face, summer sky blue and helplessly uncomprehending. "I didn't want to find this," she added, her voice softer but no calmer. She reached out and touched the top of the stack of file folders, her fingers curling reflexively against the thick Manila paper as if she could gouge out the secrets hidden within, erase them, and replace them with something smaller and easier to swallow.

"You're still not making any sense," Charlie said, his own voice soft with sympathy. No wonder, she thought, a little bitterly. He had never seen her fall to pieces like this; it had to be very disconcerting. He reached out, and very gently removed her hand from the top of the files, studying it with a frown pulling at the corners of his lips. "Jesus, you're shaking. You need to calm down."

"No shit," she muttered weakly, and that seemed to reassure him, because the frown turned into a very faint smile and he released her hand.

"Right," he said, and stepped away from her, going over to the shelf nearest to the desk. "I know what you need: a drink. That'll get you nice and relaxed, and then we can talk about what's got you so shaken up."

"I'm not shaken up," Doujima protested, "just a little upset." Already she was beginning to doubt the wisdom of sharing what she had learned. It was so much to process, and so much of it didn't make sense, even to her… how could she tell anyone else? Added to that was the fact that the things in Alfonso's letter bordered on heresy, and heresy was not something one spoke of when working for SOLOMON. Little by little, the coldly calculating part of her brain started to wake up again and take charge, and she tried to decide what she would do, or not do, with what she had learned. All the same, she didn't protest when Charlie reached for the decanter of brandy on the shelf. One drink would clear her head without muddling her thinking; one drink was harmless.

He poured her a glass, and placed it in her hands before retreating around the desk to sit opposite her. Absently, she raised the glass to her lips, tilted the drink back into her mouth, and swallowed.

For a moment, the burn of the alcohol hid the taste.

She looked across the desk to where Charlie was sitting. His tall scarecrow's body was folded neatly into his chair, slightly slumped, with his hands folded across his stomach. The look of shrewd attentiveness on his face belied his relaxed posture, and showed no evidence of his earlier concern or confusion, although she thought that she saw a hint of apology lingering around his eyes.

Doujima raised her half empty glass, and inhaled deeply. It was a good brandy, rich and heady, but beneath the stinging scent of the liquor there was another smell, fetid and unpleasant. "Poison," she whispered, and wondered why she wasn't more surprised.

Slowly, Charlie nodded.

----------

Disclaimer: Witch Hunter Robin might not be mine, but Signor Nagira's Amazing Hand Puppet Theater will be here through Saturday.

Notes: Praise be to WiccanMethuselah for proofreading. On next week's episode, _The Burial-Ground_, (which so totally won't be written by next week)... stuff will happen. Why are you still reading this? Shouldn't you be reading something else, such as Misora's now-finished story, _The Burning Time_? Run along.


	12. The Burial Ground

' '_I am one by myself, one,' said Mortimer, 'high up an awful  
__staircase commanding a burial-ground, and I have a whole  
__clerk to myself, and he has nothing to do but look at the burial-  
__ground, and what he will turn out when arrived at maturity,  
__I cannot conceive. Whether, in that shabby rook's nest, he is  
__always plotting wisdom, or plotting murder; whether he will  
__grow up, after so much solitary brooding, to enlighten his fellow-  
__creatures, or to poison them; is the only speck of interest that  
__presents itself to my professional view.' '_

- Charles Dickens, "Our Mutual Friend."

----------

Chapter Twelve: The Burial-Ground

Finding his way back through Venice to Fiametta's house wasn't easy, but Nagira had always been resourceful and he soon found himself standing on the street-side of the crumbling mansion. For a moment, he stood outside the wrought iron gates that separated the house from the street, and wondered how he was going to get in. He wasn't overly concerned. It wouldn't be the first time he had resorted to a little bit of B&E to achieve his goal. For a good cause, of course.

Before he got a chance to try his skills against the Witch Queen's home, someone stepped out from behind one of the trees planted in large terracotta pots just inside the gates. It took Nagira a moment, squinting through the uncertain light, to recognize the man that Fiametta had introduced as her nephew, Caesar. Also the man who had supposedly attempted to drown him earlier that day, but Nagira wasn't the sort to hold a grudge; his coat hadn't been damaged and his cigarettes had been easily replaced. He pasted a big grin on his face and raised his hand in a casual greeting. "Hey, buddy. Don't suppose you'd let me in?"

Caesar had been squinting as well, also trying to figure out who was approaching the house at this hour of the night. When Nagira spoke, his eyes widened comically, gleaming white in the darkness of his face. "Signor Nagira." Much to Nagira's surprise, he moved forward to unlock the gate without further prompting. "We weren't expecting you back."

Something about that statement rang false, and Nagira raised a skeptical brow. Evidently, the expression was visible even in the dark, because Caesar looked away and cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Actually, I was led to believe... that is, Mr. Amon said..." He stopped, obviously deciding that whatever Amon had said should not be repeated, finishing lamely, "we thought that you would return much sooner than this." Then, in a firmer voice, "I was sent out here to watch for you."

Nagira snorted. That just figured, didn't it? Not for the first time, Nagira wondered how long Amon had waited in that stinking sewer for him to come searching for the dead Lazarus, all for the simple purpose of shooting off a few rounds in warning. It was both funny and a little irritating that Amon was so good at staying three steps ahead of him... at least under certain circumstances. "Yeah. So, do I get to come in?"

For a moment, Caesar looked confused, and Nagira wondered if his ever-brilliant brother had thought to give the poor man any instructions besides _watch_. Then he inclined his head and stepped aside, holding the gate open. "They are in the same parlor that the Witch Queen received you in earlier. Can you find your own way there?"

"Sure," Nagira said, marveling at how much more relaxed things seemed at the mansion when Doujima wasn't with him. Not that he blamed them for being on edge with a SOLOMON agent in the house, but he hadn't realized just _how_ on edge they had been until now. Before, the house had seemed deserted; now, he could tell that it was milling with people, lights glowing in some of the upper story windows. Muffled laughter drifted out into the hallway from beyond one of the doors he passed, underscored by the faint sound of a television. He could hear the sound of a blender whirring somewhere in the distance, and old pipes rattling above him. It seemed that Robin and Amon were hardly Fiametta's only guests, and the house was filled with the normal sounds of people living their lives, instead of the unearthly silence that had colored his visit with Doujima.

It was tempting, so tempting, to "accidentally" make a wrong turn on his way to the parlor a do a little bit of innocent snooping. Unfortunately, he wanted to speak to his brother too much to let it wait. Sighing with regret at the missed opportunity, he made his way to the double-doors that Caesar had led him and Doujima to earlier. He didn't bother with a knock, just pulled the doors open and stepped inside.

The red drapes and gilt screens that cloaked the walls had been pushed aside to reveal a large marble fireplace that dominated one entire side of the room, as well as a number of tall, leaded-glass windows. Fiametta was sitting on the same chaise she had occupied earlier, hand-rolling a cigarette. Amon was standing by one of the windows, his gaze fixed on the darkness outside. His body was relaxed but the lines of his face were tight, holding all the sunny warmth of a blizzard and proving that, the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. They both turned to look at Nagira when he entered the room, but it was his brother that he focused on.

He hadn't come with any sort of plan as to what he would say, just the vague notion that he and Amon _needed_ to talk. All the same, he was a little bit surprised when the first words out of his own mouth were, "You're a real pain in the ass, you know that?" The tone was almost affectionate. Almost.

Amon's expression went from coolly unreadable to distinctly displeased in the blink of an eye.

All in all, it was not an auspicious start to the meeting, and things would have probably gotten worse if Robin hadn't chosen that exact moment to enter the room. Her face was flushed and there was something like suppressed excitement in her eyes, but she stopped short, looking from Amon to Nagira, then back again. Finally, with what seemed to be a deliberate decision in favor of the better part of valor, she crossed the room to the fireplace. Nagira didn't even notice the papers in her hand until she dropped them into the flames, and he wondered at the pleased finality of the gesture.

"I just saw Doujima," Robin said quietly. At first, Nagira thought that the change in subject was an attempt to tacitly defuse the tension in the room, until he saw that Amon had gone rigid. For once, his brother's expression was easy to read. Amon had been aware of the meeting, but he hadn't been happy about it. "We found the files that SOLOMON was looking for," she added, the sweet serenity in her voice almost enough to conceal the darting glance that she sent in Amon's direction.

"Where are they?" Fiametta asked impatiently. When Robin didn't answer, she put down the cigarette she had been rolling and covered her eyes with her hand. "_Madre di Dio_. You let her have them, did you not?"

"She won't hand them over to SOLOMON," Robin said, with such sincerity that Nagira found it impossible to argue with her.

Apparently, Fiametta didn't share his feelings. She dropped her hand to stare at the younger woman. "I hope that you are right," she said, after a moment, sounding unconvinced, "because, if you are not, you have just handed SOLOMON the key to rebuilding its intelligence agency speedily and easily. Without those files, it might take them years, decades even, to replace those who would see this as an opportunity to slip SOLOMON's leash, for whatever reason. They might never create a network as complete as the one that the Spaniard perfected. With the files…"

"She won't hand over the files," Robin reasserted. Fiametta sighed and inclined her head with exaggerated deference. Amon watched her through narrowed eyes. Nagira just stood there and wished that he had her confidence in the matter. As she looked at them, Nagira saw a hint of impatience creep into her expression. "She gave me…" Robin stopped, reconsidered, revised, "she called it a good faith gesture. I believe that she'll do the right thing."

"You are assuming that she will be given a choice in the matter," Fiametta said. Her scratchy old woman's voice had taken on a silken edge; obviously, she had decided to try a different tactic when it came to disagreeing with Robin.

Forest green eyes swivelled towards Fiametta almost unwillingly, as if Robin had sensed the trap but couldn't quite resist the urge to spring it. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"Only that it would not be the first time that SOLOMON has turned on one of its own in order to achieve its ends." She leaned forward and, for a moment, the Witch Queen of Venice reminded Nagira of nothing so much as a snake preparing to strike. "Think it through, Eve. I have told you and the little blond pest both that I was not responsible for the Spaniard's death. Rampant speculation aside, it is exceptionally unlikely that some enemy from outside of Venice came undetected in the night to do the deed. Who does that leave?"

"SOLOMON," Amon said. He didn't sound surprised; he sounded like he had anticipated the answer, maybe even suspected something like it before this.

"SOLOMON," Fiametta agreed, a touch of sweet malice coloring her words. "Do you think that they will hesitate to kill her if she refuses to do as they wish? You know what they are like; you have experience it first hand. _'For rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft, and stubbornness is as iniquity and idolatry.' _The agent who rebels against the _confraria_ is a dead agent. They will murder her, and then step over her pretty corpse to take what they want." She waved an expressive hand through the air. "And we – you – will be one step further behind in reaching your goal."

Another time, Nagira might have wondered what goal Fiametta was referring to. Right now, though, he had other things to be concerned about, most of them involving pretty corpses. "You knew. This whole time, and you knew. Goddamn it lady, why didn't you bother to mention this earlier?"

She turned to look at him, her expression coldly superior. "And why," she asked, "should I help a member of the _confraria_?"

There was a pounding in the back of Nagira's head like an oncoming train, an explosion waiting to happen. Amon beat him to it, his voice chilly with control. "It wasn't so long ago that Robin and I were SOLOMON agents."

"True enough," Fiametta said, "but with two marked differences. The first, of course, is that you left SOLOMON. Signorina Doujima does not seem to have any desire to follow in your footsteps and, if she is content to remain as a member of the syndicate, that makes her my enemy in a very real sense of the word." She raised one perfectly arched brow. "The second is that, as you know, I have my own reasons for accepting Robin and yourself on, shall we say, your own merits?"

What was _that_ supposed to mean?

It was a passing thought, but one that Nagira's well trained mind filed away for consideration at a later date. "So Yurika's a SOLOMON agent, and that makes her your enemy," he said, and took a step closer to her. "You put a friend of mine in danger. Want to guess what that makes us?"

She did not look impressed. Then, all of a sudden—she did. She straightened, and the look on her face was that of someone who realized that they had crossed a line in the sand, and was now frantically trying to figure out how far they had gone, so that they could then figure out how far they had to backpedal in order to return to safer territory. For a moment, Nagira wondered what he had done that would succeed in making this woman, who gleefully terrified those around her with apparent ease, look like that. Then he realized that her gaze wasn't fixed on him, but somewhere over his shoulder.

"Stop it, all of you," Robin said, exasperation threading its way through her voice. "What's done is done, and this isn't helping anything." She looked at Amon, and then away. "We need to find Doujima. If nothing else, she needs to know this." Perhaps Fiametta's words had struck a nerve, because she looked more worried than the mere need to pass on information would warrant. Perhaps that worry was contagious, because Nagira could feel an answering spark of anxiety, somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach.

_For rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft…_

And he knew, far too well, how SOLOMON dealt with witches.

…_the agent who rebels against the _confraria_ is a dead agent._

----------

"Poison," Doujima whispered, and she didn't even have to see Charlie's nod to know that she was right. She could taste it, smell it, feel it working its way into her blood.

"I'm sorry, Yurika," Charlie said. He stood, and walked around the desk to pluck the glass from her nerveless fingers. "I wish there was another way," he added, as he placed the glass back on the shelf next to its empty fellows and the decanter of poisoned wine. He turned, and gazed at her, his eyes pale and intent in the thin moonlight that trickled through the windows at her back. "I want you to understand."

His words teased her voice out from where it was stuck at the back of her throat. "If you want me to understand why you betrayed Alfonso," she said, "then you need to try harder." He had betrayed her, too. She realized that, but it wasn't unreasonable to think that the explanations for each would be interconnected.

"I didn't," he replied, with such vicious passion that it startled her. "It's not that simple. I mean…" He paused, his eyes going unfocused as he gathered his thoughts. "He betrayed us first, you know. He kept the Hunters out of Venice, allowing the witches to pollute this city, for all that he said he loved it. That was when the Assembly approached me, asking me to keep an eye on his. For his own good, you know. To make sure he didn't do anything… unforgivable."

"You were a double-agent," Doujima murmured. She sank back into her chair, her limbs feeling heavy. "This whole time. I don't believe it."

"I was loyal to SOLOMON," he said. "I thought it was ridiculous at first, too, but I should have known better. Exodus says it all, doesn't it? By suffering the witches of Venice to live, he became a heretic. The Assembly was willing to forgive him that..." _because he had enough dirt to bury them all_, Doujima added silently, with a sort of bleary cynicism, "but it didn't stop there."

"Didn't it?" she asked quietly. She already knew the answer, but he seemed to need prompting.

"Like I said," he punctuated his words with a small grimace. "I should have known better. He was a Craft-user, wasn't he? Already tainted with witch blood. It didn't take much to make him betray SOLOMON. The half-mad ravings of a heretic scientist, and suddenly he was wandering around the office, muttering to himself about how the syndicate ruined everything and everyone it touched. He did that, you know, when something was really bothering him. Talked to himself. It was like he forgot that I was even there. Some spy, huh?"

"He trusted you," Doujima shot back, and she liked the sharp anger that colored her voice, although she was starting to feel a little bit nervous about the numbness in her fingertips.

Charlie shrugged off her statement. "_I_ trusted _him_. Then I saw it. The letter. I walked in on him one day while he was writing it and he put it away pretty quick, but I got a good enough look at it to know that it was a confession… and that it was addressed to you." His eyes focused on her again, cool and hard; she might have squirmed if she had felt capable of the movement right then. His face was fierce with some emotion, unidentifiable yet somehow familiar. "I reported what I knew to the Assembly and they gave me my orders."

"So you killed him."

"I saved him," Charlie said, and suddenly, Doujima was able to identify the emotion that colored his face and made his voice practically shake with intensity; the fervor of a zealot, a fanatic… a SOLOMON agent. It chilled her to the bone. It made her wonder if she had ever looked that way, with the burning light of righteousness in her eyes, her mouth set in a line both hard and unforgiving. "Don't you understand, Yurika? He confessed, was tried, and found guilty, in the eyes of both God and man. I was simply the humble tool that delivered his judgment, and his salvation."

"You're a tool, alright," she muttered. He didn't seem to hear her.

"I didn't betray Alfonso," he continued. "I only did it to save him. What was left of him that was worth saving. Don't you understand?"

_More than I ever wanted to_. "And me?"

"You too," he said, and she thought that she detected a slight softening in his voice. "Guilt by association, Yurika. You see it a lot if you look through the transcripts of the old witch trials. _'Believers who receive, defend or support heretics shall be branded as infamous,'_" he quoted, the syndicate's doctrine coming easily to his lips. "You and Alfonso were cut from the same cloth, always have been. When I realized that he was writing his confession to you, I knew that he had tainted you with the same doubts about the organization, the same heretical ways of thinking." He reached out, like he would touch her hand or her cheek. Then he stopped himself, as if the invisible taint that he was talking about could be transferred from her skin to his. "And you're a Seed. I didn't know that before you told me this afternoon. I thought that it might not be too late. But it's in your blood. I knew what had to be done the moment that you came in the door tonight. I could see it in your eyes."

_And there is nothing like finding out, finally, finally, that all those things they taught you were wrong._

Alfonso's words.

_Yes_.

She didn't realize that she had spoken the last word out loud until she felt Charlie's glare on her. She ignored him, reaching out instead to pull the files off of the desk and into her lap, the folder with Alfonso's letter still sitting on top. Her hands felt thick and clumsy, like they were barely attached to her wrists, but she managed well enough, cuddling the thick stack of papers to her like a security blanket, or some kind of talisman against harm. The moon-bleached colors of the room bled together as her eyes refused to focus, and she let her head fall back against the cracked leather of the chair so that she could stare dizzily up at the ceiling. "What did you give me?"

"Belladonna, and a sedative to make you sleep," Charlie said, offhandedly. "By the time the poison kicks in, you won't be feeling a thing. It's better that way, don't you think?"

"I would have preferred not to have been poisoned at all," she replied, lifting her head just enough look at him.

Charlie didn't respond. Instead, he pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and flipped it open. The light of the display turned his face green in the darkness, and his fingers blurred before her eyes as they ran over the glowing numbers on the buttons. The low beeps as he dialed sounded loud in the sudden silence.

He held the phone to his face, and waited patiently. Doujima closed her eyes and tried to stay awake, trying unsuccessfully to focus on Charlie's quiet voice as he spoke into the phone. She heard him snap the phone shut, and forced her eyes open as he once again spoke to her. "There have been Hunters in the city for weeks. Did you know that?"

"No," Doujima said. "Alfonso never allowed it. Never would have allowed it."

Charlie nodded. "He was a traitor," he said, as if to remind her. "So are you, I suppose. They're on their way."

It wouldn't take them long, she figured. The city wasn't all that big; no matter where they were stationed, SOLOMON troops knew how to mobilize quickly and it wouldn't be more than a few minutes before the building was swarming with Hunters. There was nothing she could do about it now. She had played the spy game and, rather to her surprise, she had lost. How very… disappointing... to have failed in the end. Alfonso would not be avenged. The files, and the people whose lives they contained, would be delivered to SOLOMON. She would die.

_Most of all, we are taught to despair._

The _hell_ she would.

The sound of booted feet tromping up the steps drew her attention. Lots of booted feet, with no attempt made at silence or subtlety.

_The guilt, the anger, and – the hope._

More anger than hope at the moment, to be certain, but that was almost preferable. It dismissed the last lingering feelings of self-preservation, leaving her with the nearly insane desire to do something, anything, that would _piss Charlie off_. It lent strength to her lead-weighted limbs, allowing her to pull up her legs and push hard, as hard as she could, against the edge of the desk. The chair slid back, wheels skittering loudly against the scuffed wooden floors.

For a moment, she thought that it wouldn't be enough. The chair hit the window, the glass groaned a complaint, but it held. Hope flagged, anger faltered, and despair raised its ugly little head again. Then, there was another little groaning complaint from behind her, as the glass continued to support her weight but the three-hundred-year-old wood that held the panes in place refused to do so. There was a resounding _craaack_ as the long-suffering wood was reduced to so many toothpick-sized splinters, sending her plummeting towards the canal.

As she, the chair, and the stack of files went out the window, her usually over-developed survival instinct chose to wake up and remark that, as far as stupid ideas went, this one trumped all others, including one memorable childhood attempt at shoving a 100 lire coin up her nose.

She thought she heard Charlie yell her name. She thought she heard someone else echo it. Then she hit the water, and she stopped thinking of anything at all.

----------

Disclaimer: No... wait, wait, yes... or rather, I think... no, definitely not. _Witch Hunter Robin _still isn't mine. Drat.

Notes: As always, WiccanMethuselah comes to my rescue with her mad beta reading skilz. _Madre di Dio_ means 'mother of God'. Unmarked quotes are as followed: Fiametta quotes the Bible, specifically Samuel (15:23) and Charlie paraphrases a papal bull, _Canon Three – On Heresy_, from the Fourth Lateran Council. Just in case you wanted to know. Look for the next chapter, hopefully to be delivered in a more timely manner than the last few chapters.


	13. Truth

_' " . . . it is very painful for me to be forced to  
__speak the truth. It is the first time in my life  
__that I have ever been reduced to such a painful  
__position, and I am really quite inexperienced  
__in doing anything of the kind." '_

- Oscar Wilde, 'The Importance of Being Earnest.'

* * *

Chapter Thirteen: Truth

The world was a blur of light, shadow and sound; a whirlwind with her trapped in the middle of it. The ground beneath her feet kept shifting, changing, rocking like a boat on a troubled sea and sending her staggering. Warm hands wrapped around her arms, keeping her steady, but when she turned to see who was supporting her she had only the vague impression of dark hair and a pale, indistinct face.

"She can't even walk straight," the face murmured, and now Doujima knew that it was Amon. His hair was dripping on her; he was soaked through. She was too, but she didn't feel it. Her skin felt hot and dry, stretched too thin over her bones. "This isn't right. She shouldn't be this bad from a dunk in the water."

A dunk in the water. They used to do that to witches, didn't they? To see if they would float. She wanted to tell him that a dunk in Venice's water probably _would_ do this to a person, but she couldn't make the words come out. Her mouth was desert dry, her tongue thick and clumsy. "Poisoned," she tried to say, and wasn't even sure that she had made a sound.

Robin was there, and Doujima wasn't entirely sure where she had come from; if she had been there all along or if she had appeared, like magic, out of the whirlwind – no, the firestorm – that the world had become. She placed a gentle hand against Doujima's forehead. The pressure made her skin twinge, but it was also surprisingly comforting. "She was given something. I think she needs a doctor."

Had Robin heard? Or had she guessed? For once, the constant questions her mind supplied just didn't matter, and she sagged against Amon, barely registering it when he swayed before adjusting to her added weight. He muttered something, low and obscene, before swinging her up, up and into his arms. She felt like she was flying, and the blurred edges of the world were sliding into her, smearing her like the watercolors, pale and soft like the painting that hung on Alfonso's wall.

"Someone will be on duty, even now." A woman's voice, familiar but unrecognizable. "We are almost there. Try to keep her awake."

"Doujima..." Robin again, her hand, this time on Doujima's arm. It made her flinch, the feeling invasive now rather than comforting.

"Yurika." That was Nagira, and she found herself paying attention simply because this was the first time she had heard him speak since they had pulled her into the boat. The boat had been left behind, she recalled hazily, abandoned in favor of dry land, but that was okay because she didn't have to walk; Amon was playing at being the gallant, or whatever. "You stay awake, or I'm donating your clothes to charity."

She might have laughed, except it was just easier and less painful not to. Easier and less painful, too, to lean her head back against the damp arm of Amon's shirt and close her eyes. Just for a moment. Just long enough to make the world stop blurring and twisting, and allow time to blur and twist instead.

The noise decreased. The light increased.

There was a sharp, institutional smell, like the dentist's office. When she had been younger, Alfonso had dragged her to the dentist, and to the doctor. She had hated it; he had already taught her to read faces, and she had always _known_ they didn't mean it when they told her something wasn't going to hurt.

Voices, clattering and shifting against each other, familiar and unfamiliar weaving together like threads in a tapestry. If Robin's voice was thread, it would have been something soft but unbelievably strong, something that gleamed when you turned it to the light. Amon was smooth and shining silk, a thin strand that was sharp enough to cut and kill. Nagira... Nagira, she decided, was wool. It looked soft, but it prickled when you touched it and was bound to rub you the wrong way if you wore it for too long. He was rubbing someone the wrong way now. She could tell, even if the details of what was being said were as indistinct as Amon's face had been earlier.

Light. Voices. Something solid, but neither warm nor wet enough to be Amon, beneath her. All of it fading, becoming as distant as a dream, only bits and snatches of it worming their way into her brain.

"_...dilated pupils, increased heart rate..."_

"_I can hear her heartbeat from halfway across the freaking..."_

The surface she was sitting on shifted, as if someone was leaning against it. Even with her eyes closed, it made her feel tilted and dizzy.

"_...emetic?"_

"_I think it's better to..._

"_No..."_

"_...what the hell are...?"_

Someone held something to her lips, and she drank it down without thinking. Almost immediately, it came back up, her stomach jerking unpleasantly as it tried to escape her body through her throat; her head, neck, and shoulders pounding and straining. _God_ but it hurt. She was bent nearly in two, her eyes open but watering, still unable to make out the world around her except that her feet were bare and covered in something unpleasant. Oh, and she had probably just ruined these trousers, which was a pity because she had rather liked them. Someone touched her and she struck out at them blindly, feeling viciously pleased when her hand connected. She might have done more except that her guts were twitching and it was going to happen... it was happening, it had happened again... Until she could close her eyes and allow herself to drift again, allow the world to become distant, unseen, half-heard, dim.

_The slant of the light was different when she opened her eyes, more natural, less florescent. She thought that she might be dreaming, except that it didn't have the quality of a dream. It felt a little bit like when she was sixteen, and she and a neighbor girl had crouched on the dock behind Alfonso's house and smoked themselves stupid; her thoughts were confused, illogical, but undeniably waking and real. Alfonso had lectured her afterwards until she had thought that her ears would fall off, because it was important that her mind remain sharp and, blah blah blah, being a spy was serious business..._

_It felt a little bit like that, but not much. Even so, she thought that she was probably wasn't dreaming._

_Robin sat beside her, and she was beautiful and frightening. Her hair writhed around her face like a living thing, and her eyes glowed, the color of new leaves against the sun. Only the hideous yellow dress remained the same. Her mouth moved, as if she was speaking, but Doujima heard nothing. _

_She held up her hands, a piece of paper between them. It took Doujima a moment to recognize it as Alfonso's letter. Slowly, Robin pressed her face into the letter, forming a mask that hid lips, nose, and glowing eyes. When she let the letter fall away, the words had impressed themselves on her skin, burning black like tattoos against the pale skin of Robin's face._

Darkness.

_She was on a bed, metal frame and crisply starched cotton sheets screaming 'hospital' to her mind. A hand closed over her breast, almost but not quite too hard for seduction, and she looked up into Sakaki's eyes, dark in the darkness of the room, and very close. That wasn't right, though. There had been a time or two, when he had walked her out or given her a ride, and she had thought, _maybe_, but they had never..._

_He pushed his face against hers, stubble sliding against her cheek. "Who do you trust?" It occurred to her that she should have been able to feel his breath on her skin, but she couldn't._

Darkness.

_It was no longer dark, and Nagira was standing over her bed. He had a sock over one of his hands, black magic marker scribbled over it to give it the appearance of hair, and one broad line curved into a semicircle to suggest a frown. He pushed it into her face, and the black button eyes glittered at her strangely._

Darkness.

_Morning, and Fiametta was sitting on the edge of the mattress, her red-gold hair falling to conceal her face, except for her eyes, which were as dark and shining as Nagira's puppet. She held up her hand, showing that there was something small and squirming in her fist. A toad._

_The Witch Queen placed the toad on the bed, pinning it against the sheets with long, graceful fingers. She produced a knife, and held it up to the light, the edge of it gleaming silver and sharp. Without hesitation, she placed the blade between the toad's eyes, pushed deep and pulled down, slicing it open from nose to tailbone with ease and efficiency. A thin spray of blood turned the white fabric over Doujima's leg crimson. The toad was still moving, desperately trying to escape. _

_Fiametta put down the knife, and looked at Doujima. Without looking away, she slid deft fingers into the toad's skull, blood sliding over her skin as if the crimson polish on her long nails was eating its way up her hand. She pulled away, released the now-still toad, and between her fingertips was something wet and glistening, so covered in gore that it was impossible to tell what it was._

_She reached forward, and slid the damp glob between Doujima's lips, covering her mouth and nose with bloodied fingers so that there was no choice but to swallow, swallow or suffocate._

"_Stupid girl," she murmured, her old woman's voice scraping as Doujima tried not to gag at the coppery taste that filled her mouth, uncooked meat, sick and cloying. "Stupid... but very brave. The files you brought with you out the window were recovered. I wished to destroy them, but the Eve argued that they were yours to do with as you please. I bow to her judgment." The hand that was holding Doujima's face tightened painfully, nails biting into her skin. "Take care that you choose wisely."_

_She got up and left, taking the knife and the toad's mutilated corpse with her and, no matter how much Doujima wished that this had been a dream, she had the feeling that it wasn't._

Darkness.

And light.

"_Buono_. You are awake."

Doujima squinted against the harsh fluorescents above her, and rolled her head to look at the person who had addressed her, a woman with laugh lines around her mouth and dark hair slicked back into a severe bun, who did not look the least bit familiar. Her white lab coat and the stethoscope around her neck was enough to indicate why she was there, though, even if Doujima had the feeling that her super spy powers of observation weren't quite up to par.

She swallowed, and it made her throat hurt, but the horrible sandy dryness in her mouth was gone. "I feel like my insides are on the outside," she grumbled, and was a little appalled when her voice rasped and broke.

The woman smiled thinly. "That is probably fairly accurate. I had to give to an emetic, in order to make you vomit up whatever foul concoction you were given. You made quite a mess out of my waiting room."

If she hadn't felt so foul, Doujima might have apologized for making a mess, or thanked the woman for her efforts. As it so happened, her throat was raw, her stomach muscles were quivering with pain, and her head felt like it had been cracked open and inexpertly glued back together. She was in no mood to be courteous to anyone. "Where am I?"

"My practice," the woman said shortly, coming to stand near the edge of the bed and check the monitors there. "You may call me Dr. Moreno." Doujima wasn't feeling so slow that she didn't notice the woman's careful choice of words, and the clear message that this wasn't her real name, nor anything that she could be identified by. She looked at Doujima, and offered another tight-lipped smile. "Sometimes I do things for the Witch Queen." She held up her hand, and a twist of her fingers sent the stand for the IV hooked into Doujima's arm skidding over the clay tiles on the floor to thump soundly into her hand.

"You're a witch," Doujima murmured, unsurprised. It took a moment longer for her foggy memories to clear. "Fiametta. She was in my room. She gave me..."

Dr. Moreno grunted. "Did she? Well, I do not doubt that whatever she gave you was the equal to any of my medicines. Fiametta Ganza has been around for a very, very long time."

"I thought it might be a dream," Doujima said, more to herself than to the doctor. She received a shrug in response.

"It might have been," Dr. Moreno said. "It took me a while to realize that whatever you were poisoned with was also a hallucinogen. I gave you philocarpine, but I do not doubt that your dreams were interesting."

"You have no idea," Doujima muttered. "Belladonna," she added, since the woman seemed to be waiting for a further explanation.

Another strange, strained little smile. "You are lucky, then. There is an old wives' tale that says that belladonna is the Devil's plant, and that to eat it is to invite his wrath."

Doujima stared at her. "You don't believe that."

Dr. Moreno shrugged. "Perhaps not." She released the IV stand, and took Doujima's hand in her own, pulling the needle out of her arm with no warning and ignoring the protesting yelp she got in response. Calmly, she stepped away from the bed. "I will go and tell that great oaf you brought with you that you are awake. He has been making quite a commotion." The frown on her face said that she liked Nagira's commotion about as much as she did the mess in her waiting room. "My nurse is terrified of him, and I do not think that my office will ever be rid of the stink of his filthy cigarettes. Wait here."

"Like I'm going anywhere."

The doctor left the room, muttering under her breath. Most of it was so quiet as to be inaudible, but Doujima clearly heard the word _magnaccia_ grumbled mid-tirade. She tried to sit up, and ended up slumping against the pillows again when her stomach and her head both protested the sudden movement.

"You think he's a _pimp_?"

No answer. The curtain covering the door swished shut.

"Do you think he's _my_ pimp?" Doujima demanded of the now empty room. She let her head fall back against the pillow with an indignant huff, her mouth twisting into a scowl. Her expression didn't change when, a moment later, the curtain was pushed aside, and Nagira stepped into the room.

His white coat was now more of a dirty gray. It looked like it had taken another dunking, even though the clothes beneath were clean and dry, his light blue shirt folding crisply against the skin of his neck. A cigarette was nestled between his lips, sending up a slow spiral of smoke as he inhaled. There was a purple bruise under his left eye, and she wondered idly how he had gotten it. "Doujima."

Not 'Yurika.' That hurt more than she would have liked to admit, and she bit back anything she might have said. This time, when she tried to push herself up in the bed, she succeeded, resting her back against the wall behind her. "How long have I been out?"

"Night before last," he replied. "There're Hunters all over the city."

"Looking for me?" He nodded. She didn't really know how to take that. It was frightening, but at the same time... "Wow. I'm a celebrity," she said, after careful contemplation.

He laughed, almost unwillingly, but that was what she wanted. What she needed, right now. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to savor the sound. "Nagira?" She paused, and corrected herself. "Syunji?"

"Yeah?"

She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. It scraped against her throat, but it also cleared her thoughts and lessened the pounding in her head. This was hard, so much harder than she would have thought. "I'm so tired of you being angry at me. I'm tired of being angry at you. Please, can we just stop?"

Her eyes were still closed, but she heard him sigh. Felt the bed dip as he settled his weight on it, and smelled the tobacco of his cigarette for just a moment before he put it out, most likely by leaving a nice scorch mark on the tiles of the doctor's floor. "I'm not angry anymore. You had me worried, little lady."

"So worry trumps anger?" she asked, with a wry twist of her lips.

"Sure."

"I'll have to remember that. For future reference."

"The hell you will. You ever think of pulling a stunt like that again, and your clothes will be on their way to a charity bank before you can sneeze."

"Really, these constant threats against my wardrobe have got to stop." Doujima opened her eyes, and was a little disconcerted to find him sitting so close, close enough for her to reach out and touch him, if she wanted to. She did want to touch him, she realized, her fingertips aching with the desire for skin against skin and her arms stiff with the effort of holding herself back. As a distraction, she studied the bruise under his eye. "How did you get that? You look like a prizefighter."

Nagira reached up to touch the bruise, as if he had forgotten it, and his mouth tilted into a grin. "You. You gave me a good smack after the doc dosed you."

"Oh." She remembered hitting someone after throwing up, but those memories were generally overshadowed by a sense of _ew, gross_. "Sorry."

He snorted. "Lucky shot. Don't worry about it." He fell silent, and it wasn't long before the silence deepened and turned into something awkward. When Doujima didn't break it, Nagira sighed again, and ran a hand through his hair. It was getting long, she noted, shaggy and in need of a cut. "What are you going to do?" he asked.

"That's a good question," she replied. "Suddenly, I find my employment options sadly limited. Think anyone might have an opening for a spy, slightly used, but with limited wear and tear?"

In the old days, he might have suggested a few _uses_ for her. Now he just looked at her with exasperation. She shrugged. "What do you want me to say? I'm not going back, if that's what you're wondering. I couldn't, even if I wanted to."

"Do you want to? Yurika—"

"No." Such an easy word to say, but it felt like she was ripping her teeth out one by one, just trying to get the words out of her mouth. "No, I don't want to go back. They killed Alfonso. They tried to kill me. I think they'd kill us all, if they could. You know?"

"Yeah, I know." Of course he knew. He had always known.

"So, no. I don't want to be a SOLOMON agent anymore. But you see, the problem with that..." She stopped to swallow, panic suddenly choking her. "The problem with that is, I don't think I know how to be anything else. An agent is what I _am_. I don't think I can... I don't know how to change that."

He reached out to slide a hand against her side, tentatively, and she wanted it, but it was almost worse than if he hadn't touched her at all, because one thing they had never been with each other was _hesitant._ Maybe he saw something in her face, because his touch suddenly firmed, his palm lying warm and flat against her ribcage to guide her closer to him. Doujima sighed, and let her head fall forward, pressing her nose against the curve of his neck.

"We'll figure something out," he said, and even if his jovial tone wasn't entirely convincing, she was almost absurdly grateful for his use of the word 'we.' "There's this law firm I know in Tokyo that might be hiring."

She laughed against his throat. "Oh, yeah? What would a law firm do with a spy?"

"The boss is a pretty sneaky guy," Nagira said, his voice smug. "I'm sure he'll be able to think of _something_." The hand that he smoothed down her back was a little too tender for the gesture to be called suggestive, but it still made Doujima smirk. It felt good, easy, like being with Nagira always had. Their situation had never been simple, but actually being with him, well, that had never been anything but pleasure.

_That wouldn't be so bad_, she thought, wistfully. She knew things about SOLOMON that very few other people did, and she could be pretty sneaky herself. There were probably a number of things that she could do to aid and abet Nagira with his 'Knight in Blinding Coat' complex. "Maybe," she said, because she didn't want to make it final, couldn't even think of doing so until this was all resolved. "There are some things I need to take care of, first."

She heard him draw a breath, and knew that he was about to protest; she didn't want that, didn't want another fight so soon after reconciliation, when all she could think about was the nice warmth of his shoulder through the coat and how unbelievably good he smelled. She shifted her head, pressed her mouth against his jaw near the ear, and felt the oncoming tirade pause. When her tongue flicked out to taste his skin, it rushed out of him in a sigh. The hand on her back stilled, and then moved up, his fingers tangling themselves in her hair.

Doujima pulled back, just far enough that she could see his face. The eye that she had bruised was faintly swollen, but the other one was heavy-lidded, studying her intently. "You should be resting," he said, the reproach carrying no force whatsoever.

"I've been asleep since, what, last night? The night before that?" she replied. "I think I'm pretty well rested." Actually, she felt a few steps to the left of half dead, her body aching like she was recovering from the flu and the worst hangover she had ever had in her life at the same time. She should have felt miserable, but instead she felt… lighter, better than she had in a long time, more free. Incredibly pleased with the heavy weight of Nagira's fingers against the back of her neck.

When she leaned forward to slide her mouth against his, he didn't protest, letting her hair skate through his fingers as he released his hold on her. He tilted his head to give her better access, deepening the kiss, and she pushed the cumbersome sheets out of her lap, shifting onto her knees. Cool air touched her back, and she was suddenly aware of her own state of dress; a hospital gown of thin, stiff cotton printed with bright pink flowers that rivaled even Robin's daisy dress for pure tackiness.

Nagira didn't seem to mind. One of his hands skimmed over her side and onto her back, finding the place where the gown gaped over her spine. Deft fingers dipped inside, tracing a pattern over the skin of her back as if he would count the bones, the barely-there contact teasing at her until she made a small, desperate noise against his mouth. She felt an answering chuckle spill from his lips into hers, and suddenly she found herself very nearly straddling his lap, his arms wrapped tight around her waist and his slacks brushing against the insides of her thighs.

How long since they had been like this? Their fight was new, but during the weeks before that, how many times had she returned to their hotel room after long nights working on Alfonso's puzzle to find him sleeping, or to collapse into an exhausted stupor of her own? When he broke the kiss, his breath coming short and shallow, she traced the line made on his cheek by one of his ridiculously enormous sideburns, and wanted to say something. That she had missed him, maybe, but those words wouldn't come, not yet. She had been right; she could stop working for SOLOMON, but it was harder, so much harder, to stop being a spy, to start saying something that even remotely resembled the truth. To say the things that mattered.

Instead of speaking, she leaned forward to kiss him again. His mouth opened beneath hers, hot and familiar, tongues sliding together. Her hands reached inside his jacket, and she toyed coyly with the topmost button on his shirt even as she settled herself fully into his lap. The arms around her waist loosened, and he ran his hands over her sides, down, gripping her hips and pulling her more firmly against him. Warmth pooled in her stomach, liquid desire that made her moan as she pushed herself against him.

A throat cleared behind her. Judging by the impatient note, it was not the first time.

Doujima was not capable of shame. She reminded herself of this fact as she pulled away from Nagira, and twisted around to look at Amon from her position in his brother's lap.

"I see you're feeling better," he said, as stoically as ever, with absolutely no indication that there was anything other that the utmost sincerity in his words. "When you have a moment, Robin and I would like to speak to you both." He turned and left the room, the curtain that stretched across the doorframe swishing closed behind him dramatically, even if the effect wasn't quite as impressive as that of the black coat he had worn as a Hunter.

Doujima turned back towards Nagira. She tried to keep the annoyance off her face, especially when she saw that he was smiling, even if it was the vaguely chagrined, mostly pleased smile of a boy caught doing something naughty. "The mood is ruined, huh?"

"I wouldn't say that," Doujima replied, "but I also wouldn't put it past Amon to come back and check on us if we don't show up." Personally, she thought that, because her former coworker wasn't getting any, he resented anyone who was. But that was just her pet theory. She gave it further consideration as she slid off of Nagira's legs.

"There's a door," he said, contemplatively. "I bet it has a lock."

It was so very, very tempting. Because she wanted him, badly enough that the juncture between her thighs was a sullen ache of frustration. And because it was funny to imagine the apoplexy that Amon would have when he found out. "Robin could probably burn the door down."

Nagira made a face, but the thought of Robin catching them _in flagrante_ was apparently enough to convince him to choose the better part of valor. He pushed himself off the mattress, and walked over to a chair that had been hidden from her sight by the end of the bed, settling himself heavily into it. "Your suitcases are under the bed. Fiametta sent someone scurrying for them when we realized that it wouldn't be a good idea to go back to the hotel."

Noticing but ignoring that he was now calling the Witch Queen by her given name, Doujima followed his example, swinging her legs off the bed and letting them drop to the floor. She winced as the contact between her feet and the tiles reverberated up her body in a dull throb, sliding limply into a crouch and fumbling under the bed to pull out the first bag that her groping fingers encountered. The dress she pulled out had a short hem and a high neckline. The cloth was soft and tight-fitting, but it was also a severe black that would probably make her look like a three-day-old corpse, considering the way she felt right now and the fact that she hadn't been able to give the Italian sun nearly the appreciation it deserved during this trip. She replaced it in the suitcase, and thought that Nagira relaxed a little in his chair when he realized that she was actually fussing over what she wanted to wear.

Because of this, she chose and discarded several more perfectly good outfits before she pulled on the plum-colored dress that she had worn to her first meeting with Julianno. She hadn't worn it since that day, but it was sexy and a little bit sassy, and she needed that right now to face whatever was waiting for her outside of Dr. Moreno's carefully tidy room.

Nagira stood, and crossed the room to pull the curtain open, allowing her to step through. His hand rested lightly against her back as they walked down a hallway painted pale green and hung with small, vivid oil paintings, but her mind was already elsewhere.

Robin and Amon. Fiametta. Charlie and Marco. Julianno and Alfonso.

She had all the pieces now, and had even succeeded in putting together the edges of the puzzle. All she needed to do was complete it.

* * *

Disclaimer: Not it.

Notes: Ya'll have no idea how lucky you are to have WiccanMethuselah around to beta read this sucker, for every time I reach for the dramatic impact (cough, yeah right, cough) that a run-on sentence would provide, she slaps my greedy little fingers away from the keyboard. Metaphorically. For my own good.

The next chapter has already been written and beta read, and will be posted as soon as I get a chance to go through an make corrections. I am pleased to announce that, after the following chapter, this story only has two (or three, if I revise my outline again, as I am wont to do) more chapters in it.

For the moment, I have a request to make of those of you – the few, the patient, the exceptionally tenacious – who are still reading _A Death in Venice_, in spite of my long delays between chapters. This story was nominated for the WIP category of the dotmoon . net ' s UFO awards, and voting should open up fairly soon. If any of you feel like heading over there when that happens and voting, I would be most appreciative.


	14. Distracted Times

'_In these distracted times, when each man dreads  
__The bloody stratagems of busy heads.'_

- Thomas Otway, 'Venice Preserv'd'

* * *

Chapter 14: Distracted Times

They were in the waiting room, all three of them. Fiametta was lounging in one of the room's straight-backed chairs, which were more homey than the furniture usually found in a doctor's office. Still, thet looked just as uncomfortable as the typical brightly-colored plastic or mental contraptions that existed solely to torment the bottoms of loyally waiting family members and friends. The fact that Fiametta looked relaxed, coolly regal, and not a bit like she had been mutilating toads recently made Doujima hate her just a little bit... more. Amon stood, sentry-like, by the door on the other side of the room, one which Doujima noted because it probably led to the outside world. He had abandoned the khaki and white 'lawn ensemble' in favor of his habitual black, sans coat, which she had failed to notice earlier but for which she was extremely grateful. It was a small island of familiarity in a world turned upside down, although she thought it might be a little deranged of her to find a sense of stability in her friends' wardrobes. A quick glance told her that Robin, too, had abandoned the atrocious daisy print. Doujima quietly but fervently hoped that it had somehow been damaged beyond repair during the course of her rescue the other night.

Robin smiled at her, a small smile, quaint and strange as ever. There was something more to it now, something that resonated deep within Doujima, reassuring her, and frightening her because it was so reassuring. She wanted to lay her head in Robin's lap, fall to her knees the way that Sakaki once had, and be soothed. It was familiar and comforting in a way that not even the stretch of black fabric across Amon's shoulders could be. She could feel the pieces of her puzzle struggling to click into place, questions and answers hanging suspended on the upward curve of Robin's mouth.

"Syunji," Fiametta said, pulling Doujima out of her reverie. "Caesar has returned. I believe he has an apology to offer you."

Nagira looked momentarily baffled. Then his face smoothed out with understanding, and he scratched his chin. "The whole attempted drowning thing?" He gave her a shrewd looked, and Doujima held her breath, seeing the game and wondering if he would, too. "That was more your fault than his, wasn't it? Why make the guy apologize, especially now?"

Shrewd, she thought, a little regretfully. But not shrewd enough.

Fiametta shrugged dismissively. "I have already apologized, but he will not let an insult go unanswered." She stood, and took his arm, leading him towards another door, next to the one through which he and Doujima had just passed. "He does enjoy a good grovel, once in a while. It is what the church of the Holy Mother and her bastard Son has done to us, even to us. Sad, no? I like to think..." Through the door they went, leaving Doujima alone with her former comrades, straining to hear the last of Fiametta's low, carefully distracting monologue. Robin, when Doujima looked at her, tried and failed to hide the look of mild satisfaction on her face. The idea had been hers, then, and hers was the order that had made it happen, as well.

One more piece of the puzzle, the one that had hidden so enticingly in Robin's earlier smile, slid into place.

Doujima looked at Amon and, almost imperceptibly, he shrugged a shoulder. She caught the message hidden in that, too. It would have been impossible to speak to her without Nagira present, unless he was elsewhere and distracted. There was no way he would have willingly removed himself from the conversation, and everyone in the room knew that he could be... tenacious. The stubborn ass. The words remained unspoken, even though she was sure that she and Amon, at least, were thinking them.

Also unspoken was the reason why Nagira had been removed, although she thought that she understood some of that now, too.

Understanding. What did she understand? Or rather, how was she to put it into words, rather than letting it hang, silent and awkward, the elephant in the middle of the room that no one would speak of, even when it started tap-dancing and singing show tunes. Doujima looked at Robin.

"So. I guess Fiametta isn't really the Witch Queen anymore."

Amon tensed, then visibly forced himself to relax. She saw it from the corner of her eye, because she literally could not look away from the woman in front of her.

"Is she, Robin?" she asked, quietly.

"I don't want him to know," Robin warned, just as quietly, her eyes downcast. "I didn't want you to know, either, but things are already dangerous enough for you that it probably doesn't matter if SOLOMON is given another reason to make you the hunted. I don't want them looking at Nagira."

Of course. Nagira had a life, and a mission, that he would have to return to, one that would not be aided by having SOLOMON's prying eyes directed his way. And she was a wanted woman now. How foolish to forget.

Still. "I won't tell him," she said. "But you should, and soon. He's come this far, and he has as much of a right to the truth as anyone. _SOLOMON_ doesn't need to know that he knows."

Reluctantly, Robin nodded, and Amon didn't contradict her, which made Doujima sigh with relief. This, at least, she could do for him. This small piece of _his_ puzzle, she could supply.

"Alfonso knew about you," she said. "It's why he was killed."

Again, Robin nodded. "Yes, probably. I can't tell you for certain. We think that he somehow got a hold of Zaizen's documents, after the Factory collapsed, and was able to make sense of them."

Doujima, who knew this to be the case, winced. She had been the one to send him what remained of Zaizen's belongings. Unfamiliar guilt made her voice harsh. "He called you _hope_."

Amon took a step forward, his stance protective in a way that Doujima couldn't miss. She had a moment to think, with some satisfaction, _so that's the way it is_, before Robin looked up to meet her eyes. "He's not the only one," she murmured.

"Fiametta?" Doujima murmured, but Robin shook her head.

"All of them," she said haltingly. "Starting with Maria." The name meant nothing to Doujima, but she kept silent, hoping that the younger woman would continue. "I didn't mean for this to happen, Doujima, but it's a part of who... of what... I am. To SOLOMON, I'm the Devil's Child, and to the witches, I'm rebirth, their Eve. I can _feel_ them. Each and every one of them, the moment that they awaken to their Craft, screaming in pain or rage. I can... do something about it." She took a deep breath, and her voice strengthened. "I have to. The coven has suffered in darkness long enough."

_From the moment we're recruited, we're taught that there is something within us that is inherently evil..._ Alfonso's words again, and she wondered if she would ever be free of them. "Not just the coven," Doujima said, without thinking. She closed her eyes, opened them again. "They weren't the only ones to suffer." She took a deep breath of her own, allowing her thoughts to settle before continuing. "You mean to destroy SOLOMON."

Robin leaned forward, and her eyes burned so bright. "No. No, 1I don't want to destroy SOLOMON—I want to _change_ it."

For a moment, the blazing sincerity in Robin's voice made Doujima catch her breath, swept up in the pure, vibrant idealism in that statement. Then something made her look at Amon, and his customary scowl was softer than she thought she had ever seen it, but there was something almost pleading in his eyes.

Doujima very nearly laughed. Poor Amon was completely ill-equipped to deal with being in cahoots with a sixteen-year-old witch with dreams of revolution. God, she could only imagine what that bright, shining sincerity was doing to him now; she imagined that it was something like washing his brain out with bleach. "Well," she said, "if you're going to fix the world, or whatever, I suppose I had better help you." She waved a negligent hand, and liked to think that she did so with just as much panache as Fiametta. "Not like I have anything better to do, anyway." She did laugh, then, her old laugh, bright and carefree, ready for an extended lunch hour and some power shopping, almost enough to make her forget that she had started to harbor hopes of returning to Japan when this was all over.

Amon's face returned to stoicism, which she thought might be the equivalent of naked relief, coming from him. Robin, however, hesitated. "Doujima, there's something you should know."

"Mmhmm?"

"The other night – I _felt_ you."

Meaning and understanding swam lazily around each other for a moment before meeting somewhere in the front of Doujima's mind, and she froze. Hard to process that, but no harder than the rest of the shocks she had received in the last few days. "I see," she said slowly. She looked down at her hands, suddenly clenched hard over her abdomen, and forced them to relax their white-knuckled grip.

"Do you?" Robin asked, her voice gentle, so gentle.

"I'm a witch now," Doujima confirmed, the words hanging solemnly in the air for a moment, before she forced another laugh. "I don't have to bow or anything, do I?"

Still watching her carefully, Robin smiled, an echo of the sly little smile that she had shown on the boat, before the world had come crashing down, while they floated through Venice's dark waters. "I wouldn't suggest a curtsy." She looked pointedly at the dangerously short hem of Doujima's dress, and that was enough to draw an unconscious, indignant noise from Doujima at the thought that the floral print Antichrist was critiquing her clothing choices.

"Do I have any neat powers?" she asked, after a moment's consideration. "Can I make things explode with the power of my mind? Or fly?"

"Perhaps you'll be able to color coordinate with even greater efficiency," Amon said and, as usual, it took Doujima a moment to recognize his particularly deadpan sense of humor. She was terribly, terribly grateful, though, as soon as she did. It was better, much better, to be able to laugh off this latest change; a change not in her world, nor in the way she viewed it, but in her very blood and bones. No longer a Seed, but a Craft-user. No, not even that. A witch.

"All ye mortals see me and tremble before my superior shopping skills," Doujima replied, mimicking his tone of voice, "for I am a great and terrible force. Soon Gucci and Klein shall be at my mercy, and the world will despair."

Robin covered a smile, but when she spoke, she sounded serious. "I can't tell you what your Craft is, or how strong it will be. All I know is that it's there."

"Trauma has been known to activate a Seed's latent powers," Doujima said. Poison and truth were a lot to swallow and, now that she thought about it, it wasn't all that surprising that her Craft had awakened.

For a moment, something passed over Robin's face. Then she rose, and crossed the room to the door that Fiametta and Nagira had exited through. "I'm going to check on them. It would be best to make sure that poor Caesar isn't actually on his knees, begging for forgiveness."

When she was gone, Amon gestured to the chair she had abandoned, although he made no move to leave his own post near the front door. Doujima sat, and he turned to look at her with impassive, gunmetal eyes. "What she's trying not to tell you," he said, "is that it probably wasn't only the trauma. We've noticed that those who spend a good deal of time in Robin's presence are more likely to awaken." The curve of his mouth looked even less like a smile than Robin's had, the corners tilting upwards so slightly that it was possible to mistake it entirely. "She stirs their spirits," he added. "Zaizen said that."

"She doesn't seem to stir yours," Doujima said, keeping her tone purposely light, watching him out of the corner of her eye. She saved the information he had provided her with to mull over at a later date, but what did it really matter if it had been trauma or Robin responsible for the awakening of her Craft?

The barely-there smile changed subtly, twisted, hovered between a smile and a grimace. It was a minute before he answered. "You don't think I'm a witch?" he asked.

"No," she replied, not even having to stop and think about it. "You wouldn't take it so lightly if you were." For almost a year, she had spied on him, him and the others at the STNJ; for a while after that, she had worked closely with him while investigating the Factory. It had been her _job_ to find out everything possible about how the members of the STNJ ticked, and so she knew that, for Amon, becoming a witch would not have been something to laugh off.

He looked down at her, and Doujima wondered briefly if the increased height difference was why he had wanted her to take the chair. So much better for intimidation purposes. "I suppose we're alike, in that at least," he said, his voice cold enough that she chose to temporarily abandon the subject of self-hatred.

Frankly, though, she was a little surprised that he hadn't left Robin already, if she stirred the spirits (or whatever – Zaizen hadn't exactly been known for his sane and rational discourse, so she chose to take whatever he said with a grain of salt) and brought witches into their power. After a moment, she said so.

"I can't," Amon said, and Doujima perked up, interested in spite of herself. She slumped back into her chair when he continued, mechanically, "I'm her warden. She's very strong, and it's my responsibility to make sure that she doesn't abuse that strength."

"Mmm," Doujima said, small and noncommittal. "Do you support what she's doing, then? SOLOMON was your organization, too." What she didn't say was that Amon had been _devout_. These last few months, finally able to steal glances at what lay beyond the brotherhood's careful façade, she had stayed out of fear, because she had never known anything else and because she knew what they would do to her if she questioned them. Amon, though... Amon had been one of the faithful, following with full, blind devotion. It was strange to see him here, willingly plotting against them.

"It was," he agreed. "It's not anymore."

He didn't seem inclined to say anything more, and Doujima didn't push him. She probably wouldn't get anywhere, even if she did; Amon had proved in the past that he was more-or-less immune to her interrogation skills.

"Tell me how it stands, then," she said, after a moment. "If I'm going to help, I need to know what resources we have to draw on."

"England. France. Spain. Northern Italy."

"What?"

"Those are the places we've visited in the last few months, the places where Robin has been promised the aid of the witches who live there. England and Venice are the most organized; the witches in Spain, and in the rest of Northern Italy, are connected through family bonds but have very little in the way of communication or alliances beyond that. SOLOMON keeps the French witches on guard, and security measures there are tight; we had to leave fairly soon after our arrival."

"I know," said Doujima, whose mother had been in charge of administering France for SOLOMON since Doujima had been a child. "The church still holds strong there. Offhand, I'd say the German states are something of a loss, as well. SOLOMON doesn't have quite the hold there that it does elsewhere, but the witch population was absolutely decimated during the Burning Times and hasn't recovered since. Possibly the rest of Italy, too. The closer we get to Rome, the less we'll have to work with. Further east... SOLOMON is new there, and doesn't have the same power that it does elsewhere, but the influence of those branches isn't terribly significant. If she really means to change SOLOMON, it might be best to do so from somewhere that will actually make central headquarters sit up and pay attention." That made her think of Japan, and the STNJ, but neither of those subjects were particularly happy ones right now. She was rebelling against the organization, and she doubted that she would see Karasuma, or the chief, or even Sakaki's stupid face, ever again. "The same applies to the New World, with the exception of North America's eastern seaboard – Massachusetts in particular – and parts of South America. Still, it's a start."

"I'm glad that you think so," Amon said, and his voice was dry but he looked half convinced that she might prove useful, after all.

"I'm glad, too," she said promptly. "I would have been quite dismayed to find myself associated with a completely hopeless cause. It's only mostly hopeless."

They shared a glance; commiseration and gallows humor, possibly the closest they had come to being of one mind, ever. Shared experience helped, Doujima realized. So did a common goal. She felt... unexpectedly warm towards Amon, even if he was a robot with an unanticipated Lolita complex.

"Now that that's sorted," she said, after their moment of silent communion, "I need your help with something."

He had the good sense to look cautious. Or perhaps it was simply habit; he never had trusted her. "What?"

"There's someone that I need very much to speak to." The look he gave her encouraged her to get to the point. "Father Juliano. He's currently staying in the city." Another look, this one interrogatory. "He had dinner with Alfonso on the night of his death. I know who killed him, and why. I've recovered the most important of his documents. He and Juliano were friends. I want to know what part Juliano played in Alfonso's death. I need to know." She wasn't convincing him, she could see that much written on the blank slate of his face. "_Please_, Amon."

Once again, he met her eyes. Generally, she wouldn't have trusted that Amon would understand that need, that drive; he was always so controlled, so rational. Twice, she thought, his control had broken: once when he had helped Robin to escape the STNJ, and once when he had left SOLOMON. After a moment, he nodded. "Very well. It will be dangerous. They're still looking for you. I'll accompany you."

"More dangerous for you than for me," Doujima retorted, ignoring the fact that his tone of voice very heavily implied that she was likely to end up neck-deep in trouble without his assistance. "You're still dead."

"I won't be able to stay dead forever," he murmured, almost too softly for her to hear. Then he gestured impatiently towards the door. "If we're going to do this, we had best do it now." He gave her a critical glance. "Cover your hair. You can't afford to be recognized."

She smirked, and stood. "Teach your grandmother to suck eggs, Amon. Give me five minutes."

* * *

Disclaimer: My fandom has a first name, it's R-O-B-I-N. However, it does not actually _belong_ to be.

Notes: The next chapter, _Who Hath Caused This?_, is complete, and will be coming your way shortly (once WiccanMethuselah has had her wicked way with it). For the moment, I will be begging shamelessly for reviews. C'mon, folks, gimmee some sugar. Even flames will make sweet, sweet crème brûlée.

Now, before my author's note becomes open to further misinterpretation, I'm off to fight for truth, liberty, and line breaks. FF . net has removed mine, so I'm going through the previous chapters and putting them back in, proper.


	15. Who Hath Caused This?

'_O who hath causèd this?__  
O who can answer at the throne of God?__  
The Kings and Nobles of the Land have done it!  
Hear it not, Heaven, thy Ministers have done it!'_

- William Blake, 'King Edward the Forth.'

* * *

Chapter Fifteen: Who Hath Caused This?

Amon had taken one look at her, shaken his head, and turned towards the door.

Doujima had known that packing some of her simpler gear had been a good choice, and she basked in the knowledge that it was unlikely that anyone without a trained eye would see beyond the short, dark wig that she had donned and the large, wide-rimmed glasses. Plain, nonprescription glasses really were a good addition to any spy's kit, since they obscured the face without being as obvious about it as, say, a pair of sunglasses. There were more elaborate ways in which she could disguise her appearance, of course, and she would have to consider adopting some of them when this was all over, but the glasses and the wig would do for now.

None of that was any help at all, of course, when Robin chose to reenter the room just as Doujima and Amon were leaving it. She sighed noiselessly when she saw them, the only outward indication of inward exasperation being the slightly deeper rise and fall of her chest. "Nagira isn't going to be pleased that you've left without him."

"I don't doubt it," Amon said, obviously completely unconcerned with how his brother would feel about their sudden absence. "Doujima insists."

She felt that it was awfully unfair for him to pin this all on her.

Robin gave her a long look, then nodded, the same quick sharp jerk of her head that Doujima had always associated with decisive action on the younger woman's part. "I'll keep him busy until you return. Try not to take too long." Having committed herself to the scheme, she returned the way that she had come, back beyond the door that Nagira and Fiametta had gone through earlier.

"Looks like we have permission," Doujima muttered, still not used to the idea of Robin being in charge of... well, anything.

"Let's go," Amon said, and led her outside, into a dark Venetian night not unlike the one that she had left, two days earlier.

* * *

"Really, it's fine," Nagira said, and ticked it off on the fingers of his right hand as the fourth time he had said something of a reasonably forgiving nature, and been ignored. Watching Caesar grovel had been entertaining, at first – the guy was a master, really – but now it was starting to wear on him.

He sighed as the man went off on another round of verbal self-flagellation. There was a glint in his eyes that was not repentant at all, and Nagira had the dark suspicion that this, whether or not it had started as a sincere apology, had since turned into a twisted vengeance for some perceived offense he had committed, either against Caesar or the Witch Queen. He had been rude, of course, but he could hardly think of anything that would deserve having to sit through _this_, a rambling plea for forgiveness in a broken combination of Italian, English, and, much to his dismay, _extremely _bad Japanese.

He wasn't surprised that Robin had left the room after a few abortive attempts to put a stop to it, and was unspeakably grateful when she returned, raising her hand in a gesture that instantly put a stop to the clumsy flow of Caesar's words. The Italian stood, and brushed off his knees, as if he hadn't, seconds earlier, been bowing and scraping in an attempt to gain forgiveness that had already, repeatedly, been granted.

"Nagira," Robin said, a question in her voice.

"Yeah?"

"I need to talk to you."

"What about?"

"The truth."

* * *

Father Juliano Colegui was old, but he was also remarkably vital, in spite of his fading powers, and it was a rare day, indeed, when he _felt_ as old as he was. Today was one of those days. This entire week was one of those days.

Priests confessed, just as their flocks did, to their superiors in the Church. He couldn't remember the last time he had sought out the quiet, dark sanctuary of a confessional, couldn't remember the last time that he had unburdened himself to another. He had the feeling that the truth had not been what had come tripping through his lips, even then. These days, he preferred to avoid that part of his devotions, rather than lie during a time when those lies would be particularly dreadful, spoken as they were within the Lord's house. The things he carried were not things that he could, or would, trust to another living being. While he still respected the sanctity of confession, whoever listened to him might not, and there were things that he preferred that the rest of SOLOMON not know.

He could only hope that God would forgive him for his negligence, as he hoped he would be forgiven for so many other sins. He had suffered in life as few others did; perhaps that would save him from some measure of suffering in the hereafter.

Hope. How foolishly did he cling to his own, when Maria's hope was six months dead, burned by the flames of her own power. Perhaps that was a sign, and he would burn, too, sooner or later. Sooner, the way that he felt tonight.

Was it wrong of him to hope – _that word again_ – that his granddaughter would not be there to greet him, when he did? SOLOMON had called her the Devil's Child, but she was his Maria's child, too. Surely the act of existing, of being created, was not enough to condemn her. Surely his God, cruel though he could be, was not so cruel as that.

"What do you say, my friend?" he asked the empty air. There was no response. The man to whom the question was addressed was gone, much more recently departed from this earth than either his Maria or her Hope.

He bowed his head, and only a quiet step from the hallway outside his door alerted him to someone else's presence.

"You should have a fire."

He looked up at Éloise Maçon, the nun that he had sent to watch the STNJ and report to him. He had recalled her as soon as the details about the inquiry into Alfonso's death (or rather, to be honest, the search for the files he had hidden _before_ his death) had come to light. He had claimed that he wanted her insight into the character of Miss Doujima but, in truth, he had wanted her company, the company of one of the few people within the organization that he trusted implicitly.

"I'm not cold," he informed her quietly. It was a lie, but the cold he felt had little to do with the unseasonable chill that had descended over Venice, and fire would not be the thing to drive that chill away. It would only serve as a reminder of what he had lost, and of what he might yet have to face.

Éloise looked disapproving, but she didn't countermand him. Instead, she crossed the room to the thermostat, a mostly unused piece of modernity that stood out glaringly against the aged wood paneling that covered the walls of his rented house. A flick of her fingers drove the heat up a few degrees, and the vents rattled a protest even as they roared to life, the clanking of the ancient heater drowning out anything he might have said. Éloise retreated after promising to bring him some warm tea, leaving him alone once more in the near darkness of the room, with only his thoughts for company.

A short time later, after the heater had rattled itself back into silence, he heard the door downstairs open, and the quietly tense murmur of voices from below. He dismissed it as soon as he heard the door close again. There had been SOLOMON agents in an out of his house for the past two days, and Éloise always resented their intrusion on her perceived territory.

"And thus," said a quiet voice from the doorway that Éloise had so recently occupied. "I clothe my naked villainy with old odd ends stolen out of holy writ, and seem a saint when most I play the devil."

Juliano froze and, if he hadn't recognized her voice, the memory of another accusation made in the dark outside of the fallen Factory would have been enough for him to identify his visitor. Then, they had bandied Shakespeare back and forth, a brief relief from the grief he had known they shared. Then, she had used the words as an accusation against her father, acknowledging his reproof of the man's well-known ambition. He was not entirely surprised to find that accusation now directed at him, albeit for a very different reason.

"Is that really what you think, Miss Doujima?" he asked, unable to keep the weariness out of his voice.

"I don't know what to think," she replied, stepping into the room and pulling the wig from her hair. Her eyes looked very dark behind the lenses of the glasses she wore. Even on that night outside of the Factory, when they had shared as much truth as either of them were capable of, there had been an air of... frivolity... to her. That was gone now, and they grew up so fast, these children of his. She _was_ his, if only by virtue of her association with his granddaughter, with his friend, both gone now and them as the only survivors.

There was a connection in that, in surviving after everyone else was lost. It made him want to confide in her, since he couldn't confide in anyone else. But she was lost, too, hunted by the organization that he still – still, after everything that had happened – served.

"I see," he said. "Please come in. If you are going to throw my wicked deeds in my face, I would rather we both be comfortable while you did it." He waved to the armchair across from him.

The hesitation before she sat made him sad, made him want to stoop with his suddenly felt age and bow his head again. He didn't. Instead, he sat carefully erect in his chair, scrutinizing her with care as she settled on the very edge of her seat. He met her eyes, and she slipped the spectacles off her nose, as though that thin veil of glass would keep her from reading the truth in his gaze.

"Did you know?" she asked, and this she did without even a hint of hesitation. "Did you betray him, too, Father? You were his _friend_."

Unexpectedly, the accusation made him angry. Angry that she would presume, even if she had every right to do so. "You are correct. He was my friend and, as such, I did everything within my power to _save_ him." He took a deep breath, calming himself, and she waited with ill-concealed impatience for him to continue. After a moment, he did.

"When it was reported to the Assembly that Alfonso was... reevaluating his loyalties..." here she snorted, and he paused to stare at her silently until, with poor grace, she motioned that he should go on. "When the news came, I was astonished. You must understand, I had known the man for years and never, never had I known his loyalty to the _confraria_ to waver. His faith in our mission had led me through my own periods of doubt when we were younger, and his friendship had sustained me through times when personal grief nearly overwhelmed my devotion to both SOLOMON and my calling. He was an intelligent man, and a skeptical one, but his allegiance had never before been called into question. It was inconceivable to me that he might lose his way, a point which I was most vocal about within the Assembly.

"I was not the only one who felt this way, and at first it was dismissed as nothing more than nonsense, or perhaps some young pup's bid to oust his superior in order to further his own ambitions. However, inquiries were made, and it soon became clear that the information we had received was not in error.

"When that became clear, when I was no longer able to deny that my friend had strayed from the path set down for him by SOLOMON – and, worse even than that, that his slip had been brought to the attention of the Assembly – I asked for clemency. I begged to be allowed to travel to Venice, both to confirm our suspicions beyond any cause for doubt, and to convince him, if I could, to reestablish his faith in the organization that we had both served for so long."

He paused, and closed his eyes briefly, not wanting her too-keen gaze to read the pain there. "Clemency was granted."

Oh, he had been a fool.

"In a unanimous vote, the Assembly agreed to my plan. I should have seen, then, what was afoot. Not all of those who run SOLOMON were Alfonso's enemies, and he had proven himself valuable over time. I, too, am not without my allies. In spite of the organization's intolerance for those who have strayed, I might have, in time, convinced them to overlook his infraction, and to give him another chance. I might have brought Alfonso to Rome, where I, by calling upon our long years of friendship, might have swayed him, and where he might have swayed the Assembly. He had done it before, over the years, through his own unique blend of charm and blackmail. My first thought, however, was to get to my friend and convince him of his folly, because I would not... I could not watch someone else dear to me be hunted, as my protégé was. My own haste in condemning Robin as a traitor made me hesitant to act decisively in regards to Alfonso. I wished to convince him and, if I could not, to aid him in concealing his defection. I would have done that, yes, even if it made a traitor out of me as well, in order to save him. To do these things, I had to be away from SOLOMON's watchful eyes and so, rather than bring Alfonso to me, my first plan of action was to go to him.

"No sooner had I left Rome than our enemies – his, and mine – moved to mobilize SOLOMON against my friend. In my absence, with no voice as strong as mine to champion his cause, they convinced our fellows within the Assembly that, not only could Alfonso not be forgiven for his trespasses, but even a hint of betrayal on his part presented a too great risk to our mission to be allowed. I knew nothing of this, and I arranged to meet Alfonso as soon as I arrived in Venice. We met for dinner, as old friends who have not seen each other in a long time are wont to do.

"It became immediately obvious to me that his betrayal was in earnest, that not even I could convince him against it, and that, moreover, he refused to conceal this change of heart from SOLOMON and pretend loyalty, even if he had none. He was on fire, alight in a way that I had not seen in years. Even so, he was too wise to make a spectacle of his defection until he was ready to break completely with the organization; he knew that to do so would call them down on his head, and he was not yet prepared for that. He was quite surprised that I had learned of it, in fact, but to me he confessed all, confident that my loyalty to him would not fail. It was Robin, of course, that convinced him of the rightness of his actions. You will know of it by now, I am told – her creation, and Toudo's beliefs about her eventual purpose. In vain, I argued with him. I told him that she was dead; he would not believe me. I told him that the mad ravings of a scientist could not prevail against the wisdom of the church, and that Toudo was mistaken; he disagreed. Every point I made he disregarded or dismissed and, at the end of the evening, I let him go, exhausted, but fully intending to present my case to him the next day, and the next, if need be.

"I was never to have the chance. By morning, Alfonso was dead, and I was forced to play along with the charade that was made of the inquiry into his death. It was pronounced that he had died by means of Craft, rather than the poison that I, and every other member of the Assembly, knew had stopped his heart and ended his life. They had to lie, you understand, rather than decry him as a traitor before the rest of the organization. Even in death, Alfonso had the power to topple them; the Assembly could not admit that one of their number, the infamous Spaniard, had turned his back on them. They would loose face, and the rank and file of SOLOMON might begin to question their own beliefs, if they learned that one of the omnipotent, omniscient Assembly had gone from Craft-user to Witch. And so, Alfonso was made out to be a victim of the witches he would have gladly joined given the chance, and I, his friend, allowed the lie, because I understood the necessity of it. You see, Miss Doujima, even after all that had happened, I was, and am, still loyal to SOLOMON. My faith is habit, cemented years ago by the very man whose death, were it otherwise, might have called me to question it.

"It was soon discovered, however, that the Spaniard had played one final, malicious joke on those who had destroyed him. His files, the only records of the network of spies he had spent years building, could not be found. SOLOMON was frantic. As a result, you were called in. I was instructed to give you strict orders not to look into your mentor's death, orders which I knew would go unheeded. Who, after all, can stop a spy from questioning – or a daughter from grieving? The rest you know. Judge me as you will."

Brave words, when he felt like the censure he so well deserved would break him apart. Still, he refused to drop his gaze from hers; eventually, it was Doujima who sighed, and twisted her head to contemplate the cold fireplace beside them. "I can't. Damn it. You tried. You fucked it up, but you tried. That's all anyone can ask of a friend, I guess, and all that I can expect." She paused. "You say that you're still loyal to SOLOMON. Does that mean that you're going to call the Hunters on me?"

"I suppose," he said, "that we all define loyalty in our own way. I am loyal to my mission still, yes, but I have been loyal to Alfonso for as many years as I have been loyal to SOLOMON, and that, too, is a difficult habit to break. I feel that, while he might forgive me for my part in his death, he would never forgive me if I had a hand in yours. Him, at least, I would like to meet in the hereafter with a clear conscience." Juliano echoed her earlier sigh, and closed his eyes. "If you have what you came for, Miss Doujima, you should go."

He heard her rise at the same time that he heard Éloise's hurried steps outside the room. She burst in without bothering to knock, breathless from her run up the stairs. In spite of that, her voice was crisp and clear as she said, "Hunters. Approaching the house. Many of them, Father."

He was moving almost before he knew it, flinging himself out of the chair as Doujima muttered an oath. "They've been watching you," she said, as if he couldn't have figured that out for himself.

"Yes," he said. "They'll see you if you exit through the front. Come."

"Where?"

He smiled grimly. "Surely you did not believe that any friend of Alfonso's would be left without an alternative escape route?" He pounded his hand against the fireplace's mantel, and a piece of decorative masonry slid inwards. At the same moment, a thin panel of the wall popped out, revealing a doorway almost too narrow to step through, and an equally narrow set of dark, winding stairs. "Go. This passageway will lead you down to the alley behind the house."

"And what do _you_ plan to do?"

The question surprised him. "I will follow when I can," he said shortly, and half shoved her into the passageway. She yelped in protest, and he pushed the panel back into place over the door. There was no seam in the smooth wood, nothing to show that it was there.

"You should have gone with her," Éloise said quietly. He shook his head in refusal, but didn't bother to explain.

He had failed so many; he would not fail another. Doujima would escape, because she was Alfonso's student and he doubted that they would find her again, once she went to ground. He would remain.

Someone had to be there to greet the Hunters.

* * *

The stairway was pitch black, and smelled strongly of mildew. The space was cramped, so cramped that Doujima's hips and shoulders brushed the walls on either side, making it impossible to become lost, even in the dark. The sharp, spiraling curve of the descent made it equally impossible to fall since, if she missed one of the stairs in the dark, she would only slide a few steps before running into the next turn, and a nice solid wall upon which to brace herself. So, in spite of the steepness of the steps and the complete lack of light, it was a fairly safe way of making a clandestine exit from Juliano's house. It was also something straight out her worst, most claustrophobic nightmares.

It took her a few moments to find door, and that catch that released it, once she reached the bottom of the stairs. She escaped with a gasp of relief, to find that the alley behind the house wasn't much better. Compared to the stairway, it was bright and open – too open for her to feel secure, when she knew that she was being hunted.

There was no sign of Amon. He had decided to wait for her outside, rather than risk himself and Robin by appearing before Juliano's eyes, Lazarus for real this time, resurrected from the dead. She had agreed at the time, but now began to doubt the plan. Her need to make a hasty escape spurred her on; her inability to do so until she had located Amon held her in place.

The coldly unmistakable feeling of the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of her head halted all thoughts of escape.

"Come to ask the good father for final rites before you die, witch?" Charlie asked her.

"More of a social call, really," Doujima said breathlessly, attempting, and failing, to keep her tone light. "He has really excellent fashion sense, for a priest. I wanted his opinion on whether or not my shoes match my purse."

"The shoes aren't bad," Charlie said. "But the disguise you wore to get here needs some work. I would have recognized you a mile away. I'm an awful shot," he continued casually, "but I doubt there's much of a chance that I'll miss from this distance, wouldn't you say? They don't use Orbo, here in Italy. The bullets in this gun are rune-inscribed and guaranteed to pierce the defenses of even the most powerful of witches. Which hardly includes you, but I thought it was best to be careful. I'm sorry, Yurika, but I couldn't risk you getting away, again."

"Why, Charlie," she said, with a forced laugh. "I never knew that you though of me as the one who got away. Some torch you've been carrying, huh?"

She could practically feel the silent waves of revulsion coming from him as her barb struck home. "Shut up," he spat. "Filth. I never wanted you."

_Liar! Liar! Liar! _It was repetitive whisper in her ear, repeating over and over after Charlie spoke. It felt like the same bolt of intuition that would strike her whenever she knew she was heading down the right path in an investigation, but didn't know why. It felt like that, but stronger, more infallible. That whispering voice sounded like Charlie, and it told her that, when he said he didn't, had never wanted her, he was lying. Some small, internal part of him rebelled against that lie, spy though he was, and that same part of him was determined to let her know it.

So this was her Craft. This was what it felt like to be a witch. Good. Powerful. Too bad that it wouldn't get her out of this; if she lived, being a walking lie detector would prove to be of incalculable value but, for now, it was more than useless.

"Liar," she said, giving it voice for the simple satisfaction of saying the word out loud.

A shot rang out in the alley. It took Doujima a handful of startled, confused moments to comprehend that it wasn't her blood and brain matter scattered across the wall, gleaming in the darkness like some morbid Pollack painting.

The thought made her gag. By the time she had turned to face Amon, Charlie's body splayed between them, she was shaking. Nerves, a delayed reaction to having a gun held to her head, and the sudden realization that, had Amon aimed a few inches lower, it might have _been_ her blood, her brains, decorating the wall.

"You're lucky that he was so much taller than you," Amon said, as if he had read the thought clearly on her face. His own face was coolly composed, untouched by the violence of the moment as he gazed at her from over the barrel of his upraised gun.

"I think I might throw up," she informed him, and was remotely glad that she sounded just as calm as he did.

"Later," Amon said curtly. He put the gun away, much to her relief, and stepped forward to take her elbow, helping her to step over Charlie's body with more care than she would have expected from him. "That shot would have drawn attention. We need to go."

What followed was a dizzying flight through the streets, twists and turns meant to confuse pursuit, even after it became clear that there was no one following them. They were only a few blocks from Dr. Moreno's office when Doujima dug her heels in and pulled them to a stop, panting.

"Doujima, we need to keep going," Amon said, with what had to be a herculean attempt at patience. "It's not safe out in the open." He glanced at her sharply. "I wouldn't have expected this reaction from you. This can't be the first time you've seen someone... hunted."

"How many times do I have to say it?" Doujima ground out. "I. Am not. A Hunter. I. Am. A spy." She shook her head sharply, both to dismiss her own words and to clear her head. "I'm not coming back with you." That was easy enough to communicate; the reasons why took another few moments to formulate. "I think it would be best if I disappeared for a while, after tonight."

Amon studied her. She resisted the urge to squirm. "How long a while?"

"A week. Maybe two. Long enough for some of the commotion to die down, and for you and Robin to figure out where you – we – need to go, from here. I'm with you. I meant it when I said that." Amon continued to stare at her, and she knew that she needed to complete her thought, even if she didn't want to. "Long enough," she said, finally, "for you to get Nagira out of Venice. Back to Japan."

Amon was silent for a beat. "I shot a man for you, tonight," he said. "Do not ask me to do your dirty work in regards to my brother."

"That's..." Absolutely fair, her troublesome conscience informed her. Still, she wished that Amon was more in the habit of sugar-coating difficult truths before forcing her to swallow them. It would have made his words feel less like a sucker punch. "Asshole. You had me break his head once; I would think you'd be the last one to reproach me for breaking his..." Heart, but she couldn't say that, either.

Amon continued to watch her, and she thought there was something ironic in his normally stoic expression, as if he knew what she had been about to say. Of course he knew. "Do what you have to," he said. "I don't care. Take whatever time you need. I'll get Nagira out of Italy for you, because I do agree that we need to remove him, as much as possible, from the situation with SOLOMON, and you don't currently have the resources to do that. However, you brought him here, and you will be the one to tell him that you're sending him away. Agreed?" His tone brooked no argument.

Doujima sighed. "Agreed." She tilted her head back, shock washed from her mind by the flood of plans that began to form there. "One week. Tell him to meet me at the Sea Customs Port, and make sure he isn't followed. Arrange for him to leave directly after."

Amon looked at her. She sighed again.

"Please?"

"Fine."

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

They looked at each other for a moment, before Amon inclined his head and turned to continue on his winding escape through Venice's streets.

"Good night, Amon."

There was a pause, as both of them contemplated the scene that probably awaited him back at the doctor's office.

"Unlikely."

* * *

Disclaimer: You know the drill.

Notes: Because my lovely beta reader is sadly absent, I have chosen to post this without having it proofread by someone other than myself. This is dangerous, because I tend to typo like a monkey wearing mittens. If you noticed some errors, that's why.

Next chapter, _Choice_, is the end.


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